


Contraindications

by SnowAndRayne



Series: Pain Killers [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Anorexia, Awkward Boners, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Self-Destruction, Sexual Assault, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-03-05 21:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18837172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowAndRayne/pseuds/SnowAndRayne
Summary: Morty’s health is going to be top priority from now on, Rick decides. It’s a real nuisance, of course, but Morty’s slowing him down too much and he needs his sidekick to be fully functional if they’re going to keep adventuring together. He can’t be distracted worrying about the stupid kid.It will impede his work; Rick justifies.





	1. The Harm He Could Cause

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, friends, to Pain Killers Part 2: Contraindications. 
> 
> I'm going to be uploading a little slower from now on but I hope you all enjoy the story regardless.
> 
> Please note that 'Contraindications' immediately follows after the events of 'Pain Killer' Chapter 12, if you don't want to miss anything I recommend reading that first.

 

> contraindicate  
>  /kɒntrəˈɪndɪkeɪt/
> 
> In medicine, a condition or factor that serves as a reason to withhold a certain medical treatment due to the harm that it could cause the patient.
> 
>  

Rick never could sleep after sexual encounters. He has always been a virile man, always hungry for more, never satiated.

Tonight is no exception.

He lies motionless, mortified and still dissatisfied, his stickiness coating his front while his arms lazily encircle his sleeping grandson. He itches a little — Rick never did much like sleeping in his own spunk — but once Morty nodded off, he didn’t really have the heart to wake him.

Even though Rick is still reeling from what he’s done, in equal parts trying to both process and justify his actions, having Morty lying so vulnerable and trusting — nestled against him, his arms draped heavily around Rick’s middle — is already causing Rick’s spent cock to twitch in tentative interest.

Jeez. Why does he have to be such a sicko?

He’d kept telling himself he wouldn’t take that one step further. They’d sleep in the same bed because they had to…

 _You could have slept on the couch,_ a voice inside him points out, _like you originally offered._

Rick cringes.

…And yeah, they were — are — naked…

_(Why’d you take your clothes off, huh? Why was that necessary?)_

…but then Morty was cold so…

_(An extra blanket would have done the trick. You didn’t need to touch him.)_

But Rick didn’t go so far that he can’t walk back from it. He was just helping Morty relax, after all. It was dark and quick, and they didn’t speak enough for it to be real. They can pretend it didn’t happen. Or Rick can, at least. Morty won’t have to pretend if Rick erases the memory… it’ll be easy…

…Something moist and pale and ghoulish worms its way to the surface and Rick can't shake away the cold bitter knowledge that it took every ounce of willpower he had not to roll the boy onto his belly, hold him down and push himself inside. And with Morty weak from hunger and exhaustion, it’d be so easy, so quick, Morty would be powerless to stop him. He'd fight back a little, of course, because he's _Morty_ and that means he always has to fight back. But Rick would overpower him easily. He could feel Morty’s tight ass cheeks clenching around him while he jacked the boy off, (the little tease was doing it on purpose, Rick was certain of it), and could anticipate how small and supple Morty’s hole would feel. It had been a temptation beyond anything he’d ever encountered before, and Rick has never been good at resisting…

But those protruding hipbones and spine kept up a pointed reminder of what really lay beside him: his damaged ( _not broken, please not broken_ ) grandson whom he had already ruined, and so Rick managed to fight himself and  ~~lose~~  win.

But Morty enjoyed it — or at least, that’s what Rick tells himself — after all, he didn’t say no.

_(He didn’t say yes either.)_

He shudders at the thought of what he would have done to the boy if he were healthier.

Rick can’t stay put. He’s restless and filled with unease. As gently and quietly as he can, Rick stretches out a hand towards the bedside table in order to collect the tracking device.                                            

He should probably call it something else since he won’t be using it to track Morty’s movements anymore, Morty’s going to stay by his side from now on — Rick decides —  for the benefit of both their combined mental health. But Rick can still use it to monitor other necessary data. He should call it the Idiotometer or the Dipshit Data Device. He switches the device off standby and it lights up the bed with an eerie blueish glow, the room is too big for the back light to illuminate much else but Rick still worries — briefly — that the sudden light from the screen will wake his grandson but thankfully Morty’s dead to the world.

Rick winces.

As much as he wants to deny it, he feels queasy at the metaphor and hastily scrolls through the different settings to distract himself. For the first time in over a month, he studies each one carefully. He needs to figure this out. Needs to know. Needs to see…

Of course, Morty’s _severely_ underweight now. Rick doesn’t need the Dipshit Device for that when it’s obvious by just looking at him. What’s truly disturbing is that the family have failed to notice.

But then there’s the more troubling information lying beneath the superficial: Morty hasn’t urinated or taken a shit in days. His broken bones have struggled to heal. Coupled with low blood pressure, low blood sugar, anaemia, calcium deficiency, low iron, chronic dehydration, frequent emesis, electrolyte imbalance…

(Thankfully, his body temperature has normalized.)

 _…No_ pulse.

_Wait. That can’t be right!_

Rick frowns. Morty’s lying against him, unconscious but definitely breathing. Rick can feel the kid’s protruding shoulder blades expanding with each breath. He experimentally presses two firm fingers into the side of Morty’s bruised neck. Even in his sleep, Morty flinches at the touch as though he’s been struck and Rick swallows back the nameless emotion that claws up his throat. It takes some prodding but, yes, there is a pulse there, worryingly weak but _there,_ nevertheless _._ Perhaps the chip is malfunctioning?

Rick scrolls through more functions, none of them are good.

Morty’s been in enough agonizing pain to hide him from other Ricks for months. Normally, it’d take more than one Morty to accomplish a feat like that but somehow his Morty has taken it to a whole new level.

…And then Rick gets it.

The faint erratic pulse, the other worrying vital signs, his weight, his tiredness… It’s like being struck in the face with a brick.

 

His grandson isn’t just in pain…

 

He’s dying.

 

Rick worries at his chapped bottom lip. _Why?_ He thinks desperately. Morty’s kept himself on the precipice for months now. Maybe even upwards of a year. Just slowly starving himself, bleeding himself dry, eating just enough to keep himself alive…

_(It must be agony.)_

Clearly, Morties have an ability no Rick has ever discovered before, an ability they would have noticed if they’d just – _as usual_ – paid a little attention.

It’s kinda obvious now that Rick thinks about it. If Morty’s organs are undergoing tissue necrosis, Morty’s body will be doing everything it can in order to keep him alive. All those repeated surges of energy, expertly cancelling out Rick’s brainwaves a thousandfold…

Morty is now a perfect piece of impenetrable invisible human armour.

 

And why? What could be the cause of such blatant self-destruction?

 

Rick thinks back to the way Morty flew into a wild and desperate panic when he was questioned on the topic. Morty had spoken of Mr. Jellybean freely, albeit with obvious discomfort and shame, but after some coaxing, he had gotten the words out. But the way Morty behaved when he was asked about the starving and the cutting… Rick's inspired terror in people before, but he'd never seen fear like that. 

Rick’s mouth dries. Something monstrous and angry brews inside him and Morty stirs.

Someone. Some — _animal_ — did something horrific to the kid. Something even worse than attempted rape. Even worse than something Rick might do. Rick grits his teeth and squares his jaw in firm resolve.

Morty’s health is going to be top priority from now on, Rick decides. It’s a real nuisance, of course, but Morty’s slowing him down too much and he needs his sidekick to be fully functional if they’re going to keep adventuring together. He can’t be distracted worrying about the stupid kid.

It will impede his work; Rick justifies.

And of course, Rick _will_ find out what happened to his grandson. He will find out who hurt him, and they will beg for death before Rick’s finished with them.

_(If you’re after the one who broke him, look in the goddamn mirror.)_

Morty’s grimacing in his sleep as though he can sense Rick’s distress. Rick sighs, consciously slowing his breathing, and gently strokes the boy’s hair. He feels calmer as he watches Morty’s features relax ever so slightly. Rick abandons the Dipshit Device, the backlight slowly fading as Rick gently holds his grandson to him in the gathering dark. He can feel how truly cold Morty is now, his body temperature directly affected by his malnourishment, kept stable only by Rick’s own body heat, and clasped close Rick feels the rapid speeding up and slowing down of Morty’s erratic heartbeat. But even though he’s skin and bone, now that Morty’s older he is quickly growing into his looks. His eyes will always be a little too big for his face and he’ll never have the beefy squared shoulders of a jockey footballer, but with his button nose and high cheekbones Morty is definitely what Rick would describe as _pretty._

Rick’s heart swells.

 _Screw it!_ Rick thinks. _He’s unconscious. He won’t know…_

“Morty…” Rick whispers. “I… I l-love you.”

Morty doesn’t move.

The sacred forbidden words hang in the air like a prayer and Rick could rage at the silence that answers them. Even Morty’s breathing is too quiet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rick groans. “What have I…? You idiot, y-y-you’ve really fucked up this time.”

Rick has no idea who he is talking to.

The universe has officially thrown him off the ride.

 

* * *

 

 

“So I see _you’ve_ finally come around.”

Rick’s eyes flick open at the sound of his own sleaze-drenched voice. His interdimensional counterpart is standing at the foot of the bed, eyes alight with sick glee.

Morning has encroached upon the suite and Rick finds himself bathed in insipid bright light. Groggy from his restless sleep, Rick is about to ask what the _fuck_ this joker was smirking about but as he sits up, he feels the subtle weight against his chest, the slow breaths against his skin, thin arms around his middle…

_Oh shit._

“Look this… this isn’t what it looks like!” Rick protests.

_…Bravo asshole, that’s just made this a whole lot worse._

The other Rick’s smile widens into a cat-got-the-canary grin. “Oh? And what does it look like then?”

_Like two tags on Pornhub._

“What the fuck do you want?” Rick snaps.

“Well,” the other Rick shrugs and parks his ass on the edge of the bed. “I got curious, I suppose. You w-went and disappeared again.”

“Yeah, and?”

“I just wondered h-how you managed it, what changed, my colleague has given up on the mystery but I’m… still curious…”

“Well, have fun with that,” Rick sneers, “I still have… have n-no idea what’s doing it.”

“I-Is that so?”

The other Rick’s predatory gaze darts quickly to Morty’s sleeping face and Rick instinctively tightens his arms around his grandson, his mouth a thin _don’t-you-dare_ line as he eyeballs the beast standing before him. Both Ricks lock eyes again and Rick is certain the other knows or at least _suspects_ that the answer to the riddle is lying in Rick’s arms.

“That your Original?” the other Rick raises a curious eyebrow.

“Is yours?” Rick shoots back.

“Oh no,” the other Rick shakes his head with a snicker. “I-I’d never do _that_ to my own flesh and blood.” He licks his lips in a way that makes Rick’s blood boil.

“We all draw a line somewhere,” Rick replies coolly. He remembers all-too-clearly the way that pale-faced Morty limped out of The Creepy Morty: bruised skin, unblinking stare, unnaturally wide stance…

“Do we now?” the other Rick simpers.

His curious, hungry gaze — _(recognize that look, Sanchez?)_ — drops down to Morty again and Rick feels an overwhelming urge to leap up and rip the old man’s nuts off.

“Your Morty’s looking a little worse for wear, Rick,” the other Rick states. His voice is too soft, honeyed with mock concern. Rick salivates. It’d feel _so_ good to knock this motherfucker’s teeth in. “Is he feeling alright?”

Rick’s eyes narrow.

The other Rick’s smile doesn’t falter for even a second as his gaze travels thoughtfully over Morty’s features, and Rick finally forces himself to break eye contact and looks down at his sleeping grandson.

Of _course_.

Morty, amongst the various other injuries, is sporting an informative mammoth-sized bite mark on the side of his throat. The duvet hides most of the damage but there’s obvious hand and finger-shaped bruises splotching his pale neck and shoulders. If Morty were stronger, the marks wouldn’t be nearly so visible, but with such little muscle definition, he’s a pale spotted mess.

“Don’t get me wr- _oogghhh-_ ong,” the other Rick burps and resumes his sly grin, “I enjoy marking mine up too. But — I dunno — I guess I didn’t expect the late, great, C-137 to be a _cuddler.”_

“Fuck you!” Rick snarls. “I don’t need to prove anything to the likes of you.”

“The likes of _me?_ ” the other Rick barks out a laugh and Morty stirs. “You’re in _no_ position to kink-shame anyone, Sanchez.”

He’s got him there. Rick’s been thoroughly out-Ricked. He glares at the other Rick and the pair don’t break eye contact for a significant pause. Morty stirs again and Rick panics for a half-second, fretting at the thought of his grandson waking to find this filth staring at him. Morty’s head tilts to the side, showing off his gaunt face and the bruised-mouth-broken-nose combo given to him by that Mike asshole.

 _“Jesus…”_ the other Rick murmurs, impressed, “what the hell did you _do_ to that kid?”

Rick feels storm clouds of anger brewing and ready to burst. He presses his teeth together and fixes a ferocious gaze upon the other Rick.

“Get. Out.”

“Oh I will! I will!” Sensing danger, the other Rick laughs nervously and begins backing away. He fires his portal-gun and turns briefly, one corner of his mouth twitched up into an inquisitive smile. “Just — just _one_ last question, Rick.”

Rick glares.

 _“Is_ that your original Morty?”

He says nothing.

But the other Rick is clever. And evil. And Rick’s straining to keep his expression blank. All it takes is a fleeting — near-subliminal — twitch of the corner of his mouth, which Rick is too late to correct, and the other Rick’s smile widens in dark triumph.

Rick pales.

The other Rick laughs.

“Oh C-137, that is _sick!”_

In a blur of bedding, light, and portal-fluid, Rick flies out of bed in an instant. Particle-beam aimed and fired just a fraction too late. The other Rick has scurried through his portal and Rick’s left alone with a now wide-awake Morty and a very large burnt hole in the wall where the other Rick’s face was mere moments ago.

Morty raises an eyebrow.

“Uh — Rick?”

“Y-Yeah, Morty, don’t worry about it.”

“Wh-what’s…? What’s going on?” Morty rubs his eyes sleepily.

“I said don’t w-worry about it,” Rick replies tersely, tucking the miniature beam cannon back into its rightful place beneath his pillow. He straightens up and turns to look at Morty properly and is suddenly unable to breathe.

Morty is sitting upright, knees slightly bent beneath the duvet. He stretches before running a hand casually through his light brown hair, causing soft curls to stick out in wild directions.

Morty’s _unbelievably_ adorable: all tousled and sleepy-eyed with his hair a disheveled mess and looking freshly fucked with most of his naked body hidden just out of view. Rick didn’t appreciate it until now but there is something surprisingly hot about concealing instead of revealing.

And then Morty turns his dopey grin upon him and Rick’s knees go weak.

“Hey, so…” Morty begins nervously.

“So… —uhm!” Rick coughs.

Morty brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “What…" Rick's stomach plummets at the thought of actually  _talking about_ what happened last night but he huffs a sigh of relief when Morty instead asks, "what a-are we gonna do today, Rick?" while bouncing eagerly on the mattress, his smile warmer and brighter than the sun.

_Oh fuck..._

Arousal swiftly gathers at Rick’s groin and he hastily turns his back before Morty can spot it.

 “Well,” Rick claps his hands together, “f-for a start, Morty, I’m — I’m gonna go take a shit, then I’m gonna order you some room service.”

Before Morty can respond, Rick hastily retreats to the bathroom with a box of tissues.


	2. I Don't Blame You For Being You

“I don’t blame you for being you,  
But you can’t blame me for hating it”

— Fall Out Boy, _A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More Touch Me_

* * *

 

 

Rick should have known they would fight over breakfast.

He went all-out on the room service and ordered at least one of everything on the menu. Of course, the staff gave him and Morty some looks when they delivered it, which wasn't particularly surprising: they had already displayed similar reactions to the various group activities in the penthouse and Rick had found that flaunting enough cash meant hotel staff generally kept their mouths shut.

Nevertheless, it still irks him when one of them shoots the battered and bruised Morty a look of fearful concern.

He knows a large tip can’t stop them _looking_.

The girl pauses by the door on her way out and she’s still staring at Morty. She opens and closes her mouth a few times—Rick is reminded of a particularly unhappy goldfish or possibly Jerry doing a crossword—as though she’s weighing up whether to say something. Morty’s looking back at her blankly and it _really_ doesn’t help that the kid’s only wearing a duvet (they couldn’t find another bathrobe.) He thought the barely-concealed tousled look was cute before—and it is—but it’s also horrifically _inconvenient._

“Ugh!” Rick sighs in exasperation. He lifts one of the sofa cushions and pulls out one of the many wads of cash he’s stuffed in there—there’s at least seven hundred Flurbos in each wad—and storms over to the girl.

She flinches when Rick strides over to her and Rick regards her coldly. He grabs her wrist roughly and stuffs the fistful of notes into her hand.

“Here!” he barks. “N-now will you stop staring at him and _go?_ Jeez.”

The girl’s moral integrity crumbles as soon as she spots the cash and her eyes widen. She nods enthusiastically and scurries out of the room.

“A-and since you're clearly not busy could you grab another robe for him?” Rick yells after her. “Man,” Rick laughs as soon as the door clicks shut, “that is one _hell_ of a planetary mindset. Am I right, Morty?”

When the response is nothing but awkward silence he tries again, a little concerned this time.

“Morty…?”

Morty’s staring mesmerized at the array of shining covered dishes laid out on the table by the window. They had to bring in an extra fold-out table to fit them all. There’s everything the kid could want: bacon, eggs, pancakes with syrup and butter, toasted sourdough, freshly squeezed juice, and delicate slices of exotic fruit. He even ordered the kid some eyehole cereal. All because Rick needs _(wants)_ Morty functional again.

But Morty’s looking at the decorative silver covers as though he’s been presented with a rotting corpse.

Rick’s mood darkens. For the first time that morning— _afternoon? Jeezus, what time is it?_ —Rick is aware that he feels like crap. His muscles are sore from holding so still all night and his skin itches with old layers of sweat.

Morty just has to cause trouble wherever he goes doesn’t he?

He can feel the argument brewing when Morty opens his mouth to predicably state that he isn’t hungry. Rick flushes angrily and rounds on him.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe I _like_ school, Rick. Have you—y-you ever considered that?”

“Ugh! You obviously _don’t,”_ Rick groans. “And…and it’s obviously too dangerous so you should jus-jus-just drop out and be my sidekick full-time, Morty.”

“Oh? And being your sidekick is _less_ dangerous?” Morty smirks.

“Yeah!” Rick snaps. “’Cause at least I don’t try to _rape_ you!”

Morty’s eyes widen and his face pales.

“I… Morty, I—”

“Shut up, Rick.”

Rick goes quiet for a moment and then rolls his eyes. “Man, Morty, only _you_ could—”

Rick stops.

Morty’s cleverer than Rick anticipated. Or rather, he’s clearly been doing this for long enough that he’s learned a few tricks. Throughout breakfast, he’d been directing attention to other places in the room, asking Rick to bring him things, asking questions just weird or rage-inducing enough to give Rick pause, starting arguments; all the while, desperately holding that stupid duvet tightly around himself like a security blanket.

_(He’s afraid of you, asshole. Can you blame him after what you did to him last night?)_

It’s only now—while Rick is mid-rant—that he suddenly spies Morty secretly scraping the contents of a mostly uneaten bowl of fruit into the bin. The little sneak did it while he knew Rick was distracted.

Rick narrows his eyes.

The sudden silence draws Morty’s attention and he looks up. Rick stares him down, rendering Morty frozen in place.

“Y-you know what?” Rick says quietly.

Morty doesn’t answer. His face is white, eyes huge in an obvious _caught_ expression. He knows Rick means business and he’s not wrong.

“If—if you don’t start feeding yourself like a normal person, y-you’re gonna wake up on an operating table with a PICC line.”

Morty clearly has no idea what that is because his face goes blank, his mouth a comical S shape. Rick gives an exasperated sigh.

“It means, i-if you don’t do as… as you’re told, Morty. I’m gonna surgically force feed you.”

Morty’s eyes widen in horror.

“Yeah. Th-thought you might pay attention to th- _ehhrp_ -that,” Rick responds in a bored tone, folding his arms.

“Y-you wouldn’t…” Morty’s voice is tiny and Rick pours himself a scotch—neat this time, since they’re all out of ice thanks to the stupid kid—he swirls it in his glass and smiles triumphantly.

“Looks like I’ve got you now,” Rick states coolly.

Morty glares at him. “Why—wh-why the hell this so important to you, Rick?” he shouts, stamping his foot as he throws both the food and accompanying plate into the bin. He turns to glare at Rick, hugging the duvet to himself while shaking with rage.

_Because you’re dying!_

Rick shrugs. “You know the consequences. Go— _urrhhp_ —sit at the table and eat your breakfast.”

Morty doesn’t move, just stands and stares defiantly up at Rick.

“Morty…” Rick’s tone is dangerously low. “Don’t be—d-don’t be an idiot.”

_Don’t let me watch you fade away!_

“You… you’re an _asshole_ , Rick,” Morty spits. But, miraculously, the boy does as he’s told and sits his ass back down at the table. Rick eyes him carefully, paying close attention, making sure none of the food ends up casually left amongst the dirty dishes or ‘accidentally’ spilled on the floor.

Morty eats _slowly_. Each plate taking a ridiculously long time to be cleared. But this hotel is extravagant, the dimension futuristic, and Rick knows no matter how long Morty sits and pouts that the bacon and eggs beneath that silver lid will still be hot, those pancakes will still be fluffy, and the fruit juice will stay perfectly chilled. They’ll stay that way because Rick ordered the best for him. Rick wants him ~~comfortable~~ ~~happy~~ _fed._

But even though it takes for fucking _ever,_ Morty gets there eventually and even washes the food down with glass after glass of orange juice. He attempts to make conversation a few times which Rick pointedly ignores or rewards with nothing more than one-word responses. As he eats, his face is pinched, his eyes closed sometimes as he swallows.

It probably hurts, at least a little.

But this is momentary pain in the name of long-term gain. Morty needs to get better. He has to.

The sound of the buzzer makes them both jump and Rick frowns as he rises from the table.

“Huh? I didn’t order anything else…” He mutters, pulling out his gun in case the other Rick has decided to return, “stay put, Morty.”

Confused and in dire need of more coffee, Rick opens the door to find himself face-to-face with two very eager looking alien girls clad in matching fishnet-and-spandex attire; one with silvery white hair and the other with purple pigtails, both with hot pink skin and glowing with enthusiasm.

“Hi Rick,” Purple Pigtails giggles, “remember us? We were so looking forward to partying with you, we couldn’t wait for this evening!”

 _This evening?_ Rick wonders blearily.

“Uh…” Rick gulps and looks nervously back at Morty who is watching him from the table. He lowers his voice. _“N_ - _not a good time_ , ladies.”

“Awww…” the silver-haired girl trills, “didn’t you _miss_ us, Rick?”

“No.” Rick says flatly.

The girls pout.

“Leave.” Rick orders.

“So…” the Silver Hair’s eyebrows knit together, “does that mean you’re not coming out tonight?”

“Probably not,” Rick answers flatly.

Both girls look disappointed and Rick heaves a sigh. He’s about to explain that he plans to spend the day with his grandson—it’s the kind of thing that usually gets the ladies in this dimension glowing with adoration—when he hears the familiar sound of a chair being pushed back and both girls suddenly crane their necks in order to peer around Rick.

“Who’s _that_ , Rick?”

“Cutie!”

“Is he going to join us, later?”

Rick pales at the thought.

If the _‘Party’_ these girls are talking about is what Rick thinks it is—and his drugged-out haze of a memory suggests that he’s right—then Rick doesn’t want Morty anywhere near it.

An orgy involving his grandson might have intrigued—even amused—him once upon a time: Seeing Morty’s eyes go round like saucers, his cheeks reddening as ethereal beauties literally threw themselves at him, and Morty would be so beautifully clumsy wouldn’t he? Rick would have to show him the ropes…

But after last night’s events, the thought of anyone else’s hands on Morty fills Rick with a uniquely ugly form of disgust that makes his insides squirm and his knuckles turn white.

“Look, I don’t hang out with you two to _talk,_ ” Rick says stiffly, “now get lost.”

“But Rick we—”

Rick shuts the door in their faces. He turns and is just in time to see the bathroom door slam shut, Morty’s chair looks as though it almost toppled over in his haste.

Rick laughs.

 _Good_ , he nods to himself, pleased at the obvious progress. He takes an amused glance down at the Dipshit Device he had stashed in his bathrobe pocket. It’s just as he predicted: the stupid kid hasn’t urinated or taken a dump in days. After all the orange juice he’s been chugging just now, it’s no wonder he—

Rick’s face falls as he watches the screen. His skin flushes cold with miserable realization.

_Of course._

Morty won’t eat. And when he’s finally forced to he—

Rick winces when he hears the tell-tale sound of retching from the bathroom followed by hiss of the shower. No doubt a futile attempt to drown out the sound.

The retching continues followed by the barely muffled flush of the toilet.

Rick sighs with resignation before sadly searching the suite for his silver suitcase. As soon as it’s found, he loads the needle and tries the door handle to the bathroom.

Locked. Naturally.

He pulls up a chair and waits.

 

* * *

 

 

Morty feels better in here.

By some miracle, the desecration of the suite has somehow failed to reach the bathroom. It’s still clean in here, the towels fresh and dry, the walls free of mysterious stains. He’s never been what one would call a _‘neat-freak,’_ but he still instinctively favours order over chaos.

Or maybe it’s just because Rick didn’t fuck anyone in here—the cleanliness proves that, or at least Morty hopes it does—and Morty can finally breathe in some rational un-Rick-scented air.

He rests his forehead against the smooth pearlescent bathroom tiles as he breathes in another mouthful of steam.

The greasy cloying feeling is gone; replaced with a familiar acidic burn in the back of his throat. It isn’t so bad though, it’s better to feel empty instead of full and after swallowing mouthful after mouthful of shower water, the burn is mostly soothed. He doesn’t feel _good,_ but he feels cleaner. That’s enough for now.

And having the warm water cascading through his hair and down his cheeks means he can pretend he isn’t crying.

Maybe he’ll reward himself with some more pulp-heavy orange juice later. He’ll keep it down this time. It tasted pretty good.

He can’t put into words why seeing Rick talking to those two women made his skin feel so hot. The way he was pulled away so easily. The words, _did they sleep in my bed_ float through Morty’s mind and he quickly swats them away, trying not to think too hard about inconsequential details like that. Besides, it’s not really _‘his’_ bed anyway…

 

_“Is he going to join us later?”_

A lump coalesces in Morty’s throat, draining him of strength, and he swallows it down immediately without so much of a sob. The warm droplets from the shower wash down his cheeks.

The hurt he feels is silly, really. Childish. Rick’s going to do whatever—whoever—he likes. It’s _selfish_ to expect Rick’s sexual appetite to stop and end with him, Morty silently acknowledges to himself as towel-dries his hair. He brushes his teeth to mask the scent and taste of vomit as the condensation slowly fades from the bathroom mirror.

He’s not Rick’s boyfriend.

(Brush. Brush.)

He doesn’t have any _right_ to feel hurt.

(Morty’s gums begin to bleed.)

The steam is dissipating.

(Brush. _Bleed._ Brush.)

Then Morty finally sees himself and winces.

He’s reminded of a pale Varrix or an underfed vampire. His pale translucent skin stretches tightly over blue veins and protruding bones. His hair is too wispy, like it’s already thinning at the measly age of seventeen, and he’s sporting dark circles beneath his tired eyes that almost look like bruises.

He barely looks human.

Morty blinks slowly.

His grotesque reflection blinks heavy-lidded eyes back at him. He bares his teeth at his reflection and sees his gums have been receding, adding to the vampiric look. He sighs miserably and spits blood into the sink.

How could anyone want him like this?

How could Rick?

As the steam clears, Morty steps back from the mirror and catches sight of his thighs. They’re looking worse than ever and he didn’t even cut last night. The deepest scars will never fully heal. He will remain marred forever.

Morty’s so grateful Rick never turned on the lights last night and he’s beyond relieved Rick isn’t prying about the duvet this morning. He caught Rick glancing at it now and then and each time Morty’s heart ground to a halt, he pulled the duvet closer around himself, as every muscle in his body became taut with the effort not to move. Then Rick’s attention was drawn to something more worthy of his interest and Morty relaxed.

It’s what he deserves, of course. He doesn’t get to feel attractive. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling ashamed of his odd little addiction or the toll it has taken on his appearance. Each cut is a reminder of the filth he really is.

He grabs the towel and wraps it tightly around his middle, knotting it over his left hip. He’ll ask Rick today about getting him some clothes or at least washing his pants. He’ll tell Rick he’s a bigger size than he is and that way he can continue to hide from his family under baggier outfits. Rick will understand. Or maybe he’ll find it funny. Either way, Morty doubts he’ll protest.

After giving the bathroom a quick tidy-up (order over chaos), and draping the duvet around his shoulders once again, Morty opens the bathroom door.

“H-hey, Morty,” Rick rises from a chair which has been ominously placed right in front of the bathroom door.

“H-hi…?” Morty stammers.

Alarm bells are ringing. Hell, alarm-fucking- _drums_ are being beaten. Something about Rick’s stride, Rick’s forced smile which borders on sinister, his predatory gaze…

Something is _very_ wrong.

“R-Rick,” Morty begins awkwardly, “I…”

Rick is now blocking the doorway, his presence swallowing all light in the room. The bathroom is suddenly stifling, like the air on the edge of a hurricane. It’s just like that fateful night with Morty’s father, that night in the school shower room, or any time Rick looked down at any foolish lesser being arrogant enough to _cross him._

Rick grows taller and more menacing with every step he takes, and his shadow grows behind him: looming to fill the room and creep along the tiles and over the edge of the tub. Every shred of dignity within Morty is lost to the dark as he cowers before the creature which barely resembles a human.

“Rick…” Morty tries again but Rick is crowding him now, forcing him to shrink further back into the bathroom, eventually cornering him near the toilet.

It’s just like… just like…

_Purplish-grey fingers touching where they shouldn’t, pushing him down, too-sweet hot breath brushes against his skin as a tongue stretches out to taste…_

_“Just let this happen…”_

Morty stumbles backwards and falls backwards onto the wet floor, his head cracks against the porcelain toilet bowl, leaving his ears ringing. The towel he was clutching has fallen from his waist and Morty awkwardly tries to keep his legs together while at the same time scrambling backwards.

“Get _away!_ ”

Rick doesn’t respond as Morty backs up against the toilet. He looms over him, a glint of metal shines in the peripheral of Morty’s vision and with a jolt of alarm, Morty recognizes the syringe in Rick’s hand.

More drugs.

“No!” Morty cries.

Rick seizes his arm and hauls him to his feet. Adrenaline chases away reason and with a rush of panic, Morty thrashes wildly against the grip.

“Please, Rick! Please _don’t!”_ Morty yells as he pulls and twists to try and escape the inhumanly strong grasp on his arm. He doesn’t think about it, just throws all his energy into getting away. And then, in a moment of horrifying shock for them both, there is a loud sickening pop and Morty sees white.

He screams.

Rick’s hold has not slackened but his expression dissolves from wrathful to grief-stricken.

Morty can’t breathe, can’t think, can barely _see_ through the pain. He didn’t know he could feel anything on this level anymore. Brutal. Blinding. Relentless. As though the nerves connecting his brain to his shoulder have been clawed open and filled with nothing but white, hot agony.

“Rick!” he bawls.

Rick hauls him up against the tiled wall of the shower and Morty looks desperately up into his grandfather's face as he feels the needle stab into the throbbing vein in his jugular. “No, please! _Please, Rick!”_

“Shh…” Rick soothes. “I-it’s okay, Morty. It’ll kick in in a second.”

Rick isn’t exaggerating, literally the moment Rick finishes his sentence Morty can feel his legs turn to jelly and fluffy clouds in his mind thicken and take over. Rick lets go of him and Morty begins to fall slowly— _wonderfully_ slowly, like a gently deflating balloon—until Rick expertly catches him around his middle and hauls him up into a fireman’s carry.

A vague murky part of Morty’s brain says Morty shouldn’t be okay with that. He’s… he’s something beginning with N… He’s…

“I’m naked,” Morty mourns. “You—you’re gonna see… n-not—not spozed to see…”

“S-seriously?” Rick sighs crossly. “After last night, you’re seriously worried about me seeing your ding-dong?”

“Nooo…” Morty groans. “My… my…”

Rick’s gathering supplies from around the suite. He fires his portal gun and the pair of them step through to a far-too-familiar storage-locker-cum-operating-theatre.

Swirling fluffy clouds crowd the last of Morty’s vision, muffling any cries of protest or panic as he sinks into comfortable darkness.

He remembers nothing more.


	3. Othello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!  
> This chapter may disturb some readers. It is essentially torture-porn. You may wish to skip this chapter if you are sensitive to explicit sexual violence
> 
> I will not be creating a “cleaned up” version as I feel it should remain as it is.
> 
> However, although this chapter’s events are going to be referenced later on, I do not believe it is necessary to read it in order to follow the story. 
> 
> So, without further ado...

 

“I understand a fury in your words

But not the words.”

— Othello, Act 4 Scene 2

* * *

 

It’s cold here.

Feels strange.

Something itches...

 

It’s cold and hard and it stinks of a mixture of disinfectant, alcohol, and blood.

His shoulder feels…wrong. Like it’s barely connected to his body. When he tries to move it, white sparks of pain fizzle and burst in front of his eyes.

Why is Morty’s mind so fuzzy? Why is his head so heavy?

Is this the hospital?

Morty’s thoughts throb into clarity.

No, the hospital was more comfortable than this…

Groggy and disorientated, Morty half-opens his heavy-lidded eyes and tentatively lifts a hand with the idea of bringing it to his face.

He can’t.

Physically, _can’t._

Alarm chases away the drowsiness of the drugs and Morty’s eyes fly open. He looks at his right wrist and then his left, then pulls against the leather restraints in desperation. It’s pointless. Even if he wasn’t so weak, even without his dislocated shoulder, the restraints are just too strong.

“…ck?” Morty’s voice cracks. He tries again. _“Rick!”_ Better.

Rick will help him, right? Save him?

“M-M- _oooorrr_ -tyyy…”

Morty presses his chin to his chest and glances frantically around the room. The drugs are messing with his head: the room seems too dim and even though the room somehow looks bigger than the last time Morty was here, he feels his gut clench with familiar claustrophobia.

And then Rick is there: wheeling himself on a swivel-stool out of the shadows. He’s drunk. _Really_ drunk.

Saw-The-Vindicators drunk.

“Rick…” Morty’s tone is slow, pleading, and dripping with forced-calm, “Rick, wh-why am I tied up?”

“‘Cause reasons, Morty!” Rick snorts. “Y-You’re m-my little buddy, aren’t you Morty? My little pal. Y-You know that, Morty?”

“Y-Yeah, Rick, okay,” Morty says, gentle-as-can-be. “Can you… c-can you let me go now?”

“ _Pfft!_ Noooo can _doooo,_ little Morty buddy!” Rick chortles.

“And,” Morty gulps, “wh-why is that?”

“Be _cause_ ,” Rick throws his hands up in the air, “I’m gonna have some... I gonna... —oh fuck, I’m gonna fuckin’ throw up.”

Rick does. It stinks of vodka.

Morty grimaces.

“Anyway, where was I?" Rick raises his head, his elbows on his knees, "ohh yeah, I really... 'm really sorry Morty…”

“It’s—it’s okay, Rick,” Morty says in a tone that he desperately hopes is comforting.

 _Keep him calm_ , Morty reminds himself. _Just keep him calm until he sobers up enough to let you go…_

“NO!” Rick cries — _oh fuck—_ “Is—is not okay, Morty. You... you made y’self throw up again and—a-and so I had to do it. I’m so sorry, Morty— _brurrhhhrrrp—'ad_  to do it. I had to. Warned you first though, didn't I? Warned you…”

Morty frowns. “Warned…?”

_Oh no._

_No. He didn’t! He_ —  _it was an empty threat!_

(But when does Rick ever make empty threats?)

Morty’s head whips around and then he spots it: the IV bag dangling ominously from the metal pole by the operating table.

“What’s in it?” Morty asks fearfully as he traces his vision from the bag down the plastic tube to the needle jammed in the crook of his elbow.

It itches.

“Water,” Rick shrugs. “Gotta get m’little buddy hydrated, Morty.”

“Oh okay,” Morty nods.

“But before it was IV nutrition treatment, heh…” Rick grins and burps. “B-bypasses the-the-th’digestive system, Morty. Y-you know what that means, Morty?”

“Means you’re trying to fatten me up,” Morty answers quietly.

“Exactly, Morty! Ex – _eeeuuurrrp – zactly!”_ Rick says earnestly. “Y-You’re gonna be okay now, Morty. You’re gonna be okay.”

Tears well in Morty’s eyes. He throws his head back and stares up at that familiar dingy grey ceiling.

This isn’t an operating theatre, it’s a torture chamber.

“Oh! Oh th-the table moves by the way, Morty!” Rick announces and Morty jerks in surprise as the table creaks into a position so Morty is almost upright. “See, Morty? I—I modified the table, Morty. N-n-now we can see each other.”

Morty doesn’t want to see Rick.

He doesn’t want to see anyone.

Rick drugged him and dragged him here, hooked him up to an IV drip, and is now pumping him full of poison. Fattening him up like a goddamned fucking Christmas turkey.

Disgusting.

Morty swallows and looks Rick in the eye. The whites of his eyes are neon blue — K-lax, no doubt, as well as enough alcohol to disinfect a _town_ — and his pupils so blown that Morty can’t see a single trace of grey. They’re dead, black, and soulless.

“I hate you.”

Rick flinches backwards in his seat as though the three words have physically struck him.

 _“Uh!”_ Rick coughs, he looks away quickly and blinks rapidly. “Aw jeez.”

Morty continues to glare at him. Rick sways in his seat and Morty wonders — if only momentarily — if Rick is going to pass out. But then Rick gets a spark of wickedness in his eye and he springs from his seat; bandy limbs flailing almost comically, like a marionette with tangled strings.

 _“Mooorty!”_ Rick laughs. “You don’t _—_ ”

“Don’t tell me that I don’t mean it, Rick.” Morty hisses through clenched teeth, anger lacing its way through his veins.

Rick’s expression hardens and the air around them thickens. That wicked expression returns tenfold, yellow teeth bared in a malevolent sneer.

Morty has never seen Rick look so ugly.

“You were gonna die, kid.”

Rick’s voice is soft. There is no stutter, no remorse, no sense of urgency or uncertainty or amusement in the tone. Rick is stating the truth: raw and unmasked and ugly as sin.

“My Dipshit Device _—_ th-that’s what I call it now, b-by the way, _Morty_ , because it fucking _suits_ you _—_ ” Rick breaks into a drunken tangent before continuing, “— _aaanyway,_ my Dipshit Device shows me all your vital signs remember, Morty? Remember that, Morty?”

Morty doesn’t even bother to nod.

Rick’s tone darkens once more. “Y-you were just days away, Morty. You were going to _die._ I was going to lose you.”

He’s looking Morty in the eye again and Morty can’t stand to see Rick like this. Face grey, eyes blacker than those of the most soulless demon, chin covered with a mixture of drool and blue-tinged vomit while he sways  _—_ struggling to keep his balance on a stable floor.

When Rick doesn’t break eye-contact, Morty realizes with a jolt that black-out-drunk-Rick actually expects a response of some kind: an excuse or a reason or at least an acknowledgement. But Morty has nothing.

“Oh.”

Morty turns away dismissively.

 

_BANG!_

Rick’s fist hits the table just centimetres from Morty’s face, causing a whoosh of air against Morty’s cheek, and Morty wonders—alarmingly—where Rick was actually _aiming_.

The metal table vibrates aggressively against the back of Morty’s already throbbing head. Ears ringing, heart hammering, palms sweating, Morty fixes his attention on Rick, who is now bent over and staring down at the ground, his fist still pressed into the table next to Morty's face. Morty can only see the top of Rick's head but doesn’t need to see anything else to know that Rick is shaking with rage.

 _“‘Oh’?”_ Rick’s voice is a crystalline whisper. The venom within it clear as day. “You. Force me to watch you waste away. For months. Torturing _Me_. Tormenting _Me_. Robbing _Me_ of the _right_ to stop you… and all you can say is… ‘ _Oh._ ’”

Morty’s heart sinks.

_Shit._

He’s really done it now.

Rick’s shaking escalates into violent tremors. His shoulders heaving, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as he begins to laugh.

It is not an amused laugh.

“R- _Rick?”_ Morty tries timidly.

Rick raises his head.

And Morty feels the blood drain from his face.

Instinctively, Morty begins to desperately _—_ fruitlessly _—_ fight against his leather bonds. Rick’s expression is deranged. Not only angry and inebriated but _animalistic_ in his fury. Morty’s seen Rick dangerous, naturally, but in the past Rick has always maintained at least some semblance of _—_ well _—_ maybe not _control_ but... focus.

But now…

This is Rick the Homicidal Sociopath without the reigns, without a safety-net, without a _target_. This is Rick with no inhibitions or dignity or lines he will not cross.

And Morty’s tied up before him like a human sacrifice.

Morty’s heart bounds rabbit-fast. He has never felt more exposed or vulnerable in his life. He’s nothing but prey to the beast before him. It’s all he can do not to scream as panic digs its claws into every muscle. He yanks at the restraints though he knows it’s futile, and the pain of his shoulder reverberates throughout his body as punishment. But his unrelenting flight response won’t allow him to stop or to consider the damage. All rationality has been thrown aside to make way for one instinct, one solid thought that dangles in front of him like a lifeline and Morty latches onto it for dear life:

 

_Run._

 

“You know what, Morty? My little Morty…M-my little buddy…” Rick simpers.

Morty gulps.

Suddenly, a golden robotic hand shoots out and clamps down on Morty’s throat. Morty barely has time to blink before he feels his windpipe being crushed.

 _“If you wanna die so badly,”_ Rick whispers, _“how 'bout I help you along?”_

Morty's mouth falls open in a shocked gasp but of course he finds the air supply choked off, his body flushes hot and then cold again as he flails wildly in an panic-driven fight for survival, legs kicking against the leather straps, his mind a whirling watery mess of dark red nonsense, his heart is booming in his ears growing louder…louder… _louder_ …

He wants to cry out. He wants to beg for his life. But the words are being strangled out of him, blocked by the inhuman strength of cold metal tightening mercilessly around his neck.

Morty’s eyes roll and he stares up at the dingy grey ceiling. The room is sterile _—_ Morty can smell it _—_ but for some reason, whenever he is here, that ceiling always looks so _dirty_ …

Is this really the last thing Morty will ever see? A dirty fucking ceiling.

His face flushes with heat, his extremities are growing numb.

_Please…_

Shadows gather around his peripheral.

_…don’t…_

Fog. He’s seeing through thick black fog now. Not quite cloud, not quite shadow, but something else.

 _…please,_ “ _Rick. Please…don’t…kill m—_ ”

The hand is gone and Morty sucks down a mouthful of oxygen.

It hurts.

He splutters and coughs, choking painfully on the ice-cold liquor-stained air which just assaulted his lungs, Morty drops his head down onto his chest and gasps down as much oxygen as he can. He squeezes his watering eyes open and shut a few times, allowing his vision to sway back into focus.

Morty sees Rick’s shoes. That’s all he can see. His head is too heavy for anything more.

That evil golden hand reaches out and in an unnervingly gentle gesture, cups Morty’s cheek, the thumb tracing just beneath Morty’s eye. Morty flinches but the hand remains firm.

He lifts his head _—_ letting his weary cheek rest in the cold metal palm _—_ it feels like his head is made of lead. He blinks slowly up at Rick.

Rick’s eyes are filled with tears.

Morty stares up at him in disbelief.

“Rick?”

“M-Morty…” Rick chokes. “I— oh _jeez…_ why am I…? Why am I like this?”

Even though just moments ago, Rick was strangling the life out of him, Morty can't help the overwhelming need to reach out and comfort his weeping grandfather. 

Rick wipes his snotty nose on his lab coat sleeve before roughly scrubbing at his wet cheeks with his knuckles.

“I — I’m so... Morty, I just… I’m… I’m such a piece of shit.” Rick pants, his cheeks flushed. “I’m just this-this-this creepy ol… creepy old sonofabitch and you _—_   _gawd_ , Morty. _Look_ at you. Y-you don’t even know do you?”

No, Morty doesn’t. Morty just stares, bewildered, up at his grandfather while the man continues his drunken babble. Sometimes muttering, other times shouting nonsensically in Morty’s face. 

“You’re… y-you’re my reason, Morty…” Rick slurs, spraying Morty with a fountain of foul-smelling spit. “M-My reason. The whole fucking point of it all. And y-y-y-you don’t e-even know… wh-what that’s like. You have no idea how… how fucking… _beautiful_ you are…”

Morty cringes. “Rick, please…”

“And I _hate_ you for it!” Rick spits. His hand locks around Morty’s throat again.

 _“Ri—ck!”_ Morty chokes.

Rick’s hand loosens just enough so Morty can breathe. But the grip is still there, still insistent and dominating.

“I. _Hate._ That I can’t stop looking at you,” Rick hisses through gritted teeth, “y-you don’t know how it… how it feels… t-to watch all of _them_ watch you. You’re a slut, Morty. Letting  _them_ touch where I’m not even allowed to look. You’re a worthless disgusting little — a-and every time we’re apart, I c-can’t… I can’t! And when…when I’m with you I... Oh _gawd,_ oh jeezus, fuck! Morty! I don’t know wh-wh-what the _fuck_ you’ve done to me, _motherfucker,_ but I’ll…fix it…I’ll…”

Rick drops his hands to his own groin, drunk fingers working clumsily at his belt.

 _No_. Morty realizes. _No, he wouldn’t!_

“I’ll fucking _teach_ you, you little tease…”

“Rick!”

It’s at that moment, Morty glances down and realizes with shameful surprise and relief that while he was unconscious the towel from the hotel bathroom has reappeared around his midriff and knotted over his right hip. 

Even with the erratic rushes of adrenaline pumping through him and the stink of alcohol, disinfectant, and fear that’s filling the room like poison gas, Morty feels a faintly soft appreciative flutter deep in his chest.

But that feeling swiftly evaporates when Rick reaches beneath the towel and trails his fingers up Morty’s scarred inner thigh, edging closer to his manhood.

With a yelp, Morty contorts away from the touch, the leather straps on his wrists and ankles creaking as they restrain him.

Even though Morty hates this, even though he wants — more than _anything —_  for Rick to please just untie him and let him go. Morty’s cock has been swelling ever since the second time Rick grabbed his neck. Strung up prone, his cock engorged, Morty tries to twist away without further injuring his shoulder all the while cursing his goddamn masochism. If Rick thinks Morty's actually  _enjoying_ this... 

Morty gulps.

Given he’s so inebriated, Rick palms Morty’s balls with surprising care and attention and Morty exhales in surprise at the almost clinical touch. Rick leers at him with a knowing smirk, the grip on Morty’s throat tightens a little and the subtle movement sends a shockwave of pleasure straight down to Morty’s cock.

Morty’s whole body betrays him with a shiver.

“You like that you little slut?” Rick smirks as he drags his fingers along Morty’s shaft. “You like it when your grandpa starts groping you?”

Morty shuts his eyes tight.

_(Yes.)_

There’s no denying it. Rick’s calloused fingers have a unique touch which isn’t quite rough, and isn’t quite gentle, but experienced and purposeful. Like a mechanic expertly investigating a faulty engine or a guitarist deftly strumming a tune. Even too drunk and emotional to function, Rick clearly knows how to manipulate Morty into loving this.

And that’s the problem.

Morty shakes his head vigorously.

Like a candle going out, Rick’s smile vanishes.

The hand on Morty’s throat moves higher, holding Morty’s jaw and pressing hard cruel fingers into his cheeks.

“Liar,” Rick growls through gritted teeth. “You fucking love it.” Rick’s staring down at his shoes and swaying on the spot. “You loved it last night, Morty. Y-you couldn’t get enough… sick incestuous _fuck!_ ”

Morty wants to explain that last night was different because Rick was _Rick_ and not so trailer-park-drunk he won’t remember doing it. But his cheeks are being pushed together in Rick’s grip and he can’t bring the words to the surface. Instead he simply moans and Rick glares at him.

The hand on Morty’s dick shifts and Morty feels his grandfather swipe his thumb over his newly leaking slit, smearing the precum over his sensitive flesh and down the shaft. It feels too good for the horrifying situation and even though Morty hates himself for it, his dignity crumbles and he arches into the touch.

Rick grins, triumphant. “S-see? You little pervert. You like it.”

 _That’s not the point!_ Morty wants to yell, but with his cheeks squeezed together he can only manage to speak in Fs and Ms.

Rick leans in and, tilting Morty’s face to the side, starts mouthing at the love-bite staining Morty’s neck. Morty flinches away, sensitive flesh burning. But his reluctance just seems to aggravate Rick further and Morty lets out a muted squeal as Rick rakes his teeth over Morty’s throbbing pulse. Morty tugs against the leather straps around his ankles, thinking maybe with all his struggling they’ve loosened somehow, but it’s predictably pointless. He feels his eyes finally welling with tears and he sniffles as Rick’s hand starts moving again, stretching further in between Morty’s legs.

Morty assumes Rick’s planning to fondle his balls some more but that assumption is shot to shit when Rick is still reaching, inching his way back to…

_No. Oh fuck no!_

Morty yelps and recoils, clenching his ass and futilely contorting himself as far away from Rick’s fingers as his restraints will allow. Rick’s hand leaves his face and clamps down on Morty’s injured shoulder, slamming him into the metal slab behind him. Morty lets out a cry as he whites-out with the pain, his eyes streaming, the coppery taste of primal panic at the back of his throat…

“Shh… be a good boy, Morty…” there’s amusement in Rick’s tone.

Morty bares his teeth, his blood suddenly boiling.

 _Rick thinks this is_ funny? _!_

Morty shouldn’t be shocked or outraged at this point. After all, Rick tried to fucking _strangle_ him. But the fact that he’s actually _entertained_ by Morty’s agony and shame brings a hot and clear revulsion which chases away enough of the fear for Morty to think. But that's not exactly better as the realization of what Rick is about to do to him slams into him and leaves Morty winded.

“C’mon,” Rick slurs. He leans forward and drops the hand on Morty’s splitting shoulder down onto his hip. Morty can barely think for the horror flooding his mind and body. Adrenaline pumps into his every extremity. Blood sloshes and whirrs inside his frazzled head. He hears a high-pitched whine from somewhere and realizes it is coming from his own aching throat. He hears Rick’s drunken babble pierce through the din:

“Shh… shh… hold still, Morty… It’ll hurt less if you hold still… don’t cry, baby… don’t cry… make you… I’ma gonna make you feel – _brehrrrrrp – feel it_ , baby… gonna be just what you need…”

“No!” Morty begs. “ _Please,_ Rick! Not like this…”

With an unrelenting hold on Morty’s freshly-bruised hipbone, Rick levers Morty back, lowering his asshole onto Rick’s poised fingers.

A shock of pain shoots through Morty like an electrical current. Raw and hot, but unlike a shock it doesn’t stop. It increases with every millimetre of hard, unlubricated metal that invades Morty’s body. Rick’s uncut nails scratch at his insides as they feel and explore him. The pain is excruciating but it’s more than that. White-hot shame floods through him. The inevitable undeniable knowledge that Rick is touching something so precious and private like it's _nothing_. Like Morty’s just a toy. A thing. 

Morty bursts into uncontrollable tears.

“ _Rick!_ ” Morty begs desperately through shaking sobs. “Please! _S-Stop!_ ”

“…so long, Morty. I’ve wanted this for so long… _mmm_ make you feel so good, baby…”

“Don’t call me that!” Morty shouts as the tears roll down his cheeks.  

Rick stills. His face unreadable.

Morty grits his teeth, pulse skipping, he sniffles.

Rick shakes his head and leers. “Does it hurt?”

Morty blinks up at his grandfather. It’s a trap. He knows it. But what can he possibly do? Whatever he says, Rick will keep torturing him—maybe even kill him—because the point of all this is that Morty is too small and stupid and powerless to ever stop him.

That’s always the fucking point.

When the moment passes and Morty has still failed to respond, Rick’s expression darkens and Morty’s heart sinks. Rick shoves a second finger up inside Morty, all the way up to the knuckle. Jagged blunt fingernails twist and scrape at his untouched inner walls as Rick gropes Morty’s interior. Morty whimpers in both pain and humiliation.

“I said.” Rick growls, voice low and cruel in Morty’s ear, “Does. It. Hurt.”

_“Yes!”_

“But you like it that way d-d-don’t y-you?” Rick stammers. His breath hot and toxic against Morty’s tear-streaked cheek.

“Rick!”

_“Don’t you?!”_

“Rick, _please!”_ Morty whimpers desperately.

“A-a-are you seriously telling me you _don’t?”_ Rick scoffs. “That this doesn’t get you _hot?”_ Rick grips Morty’s chin and forces him to look at him. Morty shuts his eyes.

The pain is too much. He can’t take it anymore.

“Let’s have a look, hm?”

Rick rips his fingers out of Morty’s ass and it is neither a relief nor painless. Morty grunts and bites his lip as something sharp grazes his outer circle.

Rick’s right of course.

(He’s always right.)

Even though it hurts and it’s horrible, Morty’s engorged cock is leaking heavily onto the towel.

But that’s beside the point. Morty wasn’t sure what he pictured his first time to be like, but it definitely wasn’t humiliated and strapped to a repurposed mortician’s table (yes, he fucking knows!)

Rick feels over Morty’s erect dripping manhood and smirks in victory.

“See Morty? You can’t l-lie— _lie_ to me, baby. You can’t pretend you don’t get off on this. That you don’t _love_ it when Grandpa touches you. Y-you little creep. You devious, _worthless_ litt—”

“ _F-Fuck you, Rick!_ ” Morty stammers through his exhaustion.

“Y-y-you’re such an i-idiot, M-M-Mor– _oorrrrhhh–ty…_ ” Rick burps loudly. “You’re… y-you’re—” Rick suddenly lets go of Morty and flings himself across the room. He’s on his hands and knees in an instant and Morty watches with both relief and disgust as Rick vomits all over the floor.

When Rick's finished, he staggers to his feet and — wiping his mouth on his sleeve — turns to face Morty once more. There’s vomit and drool dripping from his mouth onto the lapels of his lab coat. It looks appalling. But the thing that has Morty slack-jawed in shock is the look of abject terror on Rick’s face.

“Oh jeez…” Morty whispers.

What could be coming next?

“Please…” Rick’s eyes are welling with tears again and although his gaze is on Morty, his focus is somewhere else. It is as though he is looking _through_ him, somewhere far beyond them both. “P-Please don’t look at me like that!” Rick wails. “I’m not dangerous. I’m _not!_ Jus-Just let me see her. _Y-You have to let me see her!”_

The erratic drunken mood-swings are giving Morty whiplash. Exhausted, he blinks dazedly up at his sobbing drunken mess of a grandfather.

Some instincts are cut too deep. Even now—even after all of it—Morty just wants Rick to be okay. 

“Rick…?” Morty whispers.

“Morty?”

Rick’s gaze focuses back on the present and he kicks over his seat, which clatters against a nearby wall. He runs his hand through is sweat-soaked hair and approaches Morty shakily — almost timidly. 

“I… I told Noob-Noob to tell you… did Noob-Noob…did — did he ever tell you…?” Rick’s asks cautiously. He sniffles loudly. “Oh jeez… why am I getting emotional?”

Morty’s beyond done at this point and just sighs. “Tell me wh—?”

But before Morty can finish his sentence, Rick’s mouth is on his.

It isn’t like before.

It tastes horrid. There’s bile and a million alcoholic drinks and something with a texture akin to cooking oil mixed in there. And Rick is messy and careless with need, his lips too slippery with drool, he bites roughly at Morty’s bottom lip and sloshes his tongue carelessly about in Morty’s mouth.

Morty can’t push Rick away so he resorts to the only self-defence he can think of and sinks his teeth into Rick’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.

With an enraged cry, Rick rips their mouths apart and immediately punches Morty in the face. There’s a sickening crack and flare of pain from his nose, accompanied by the familiar metallic tang of blood at the back of his throat. If it weren’t for Mike and co.’s regular beatings, it might have driven out a cry of pain from Morty but instead Morty just grunts as blood drips down his lips and chin. His nose undoubtedly broken. Again.

“I hate you!” Rick barks as he gathers up his belt from the floor.

Morty’s numb as the belt hits him across his front. Rick draws back again but his vision is unfocused, eyes filled with angry tears and when he whips Morty again it’s got less feeling than before. Rick sways. Morty no longer feels a thing.

After the leather has connected with flesh a few more times Rick finally lets out an anguished cry, dropping the belt and gripping his hair in his fists. He reaches into his lab coat pocket, pulling out an all-too-familiar ray gun.

Morty’s heart pounds in alarm.

Rick’s going to shoot him? While he’s strung up and defenceless? Well… _Rick_ would never do that, it’d be too easy a kill, but black-out-drunk-Rick might.

With a very dry mouth and a cold sinking feeling of absolute dread flooding his every nerve, Morty whispers in as gentle a tone as he can manage, “please…if you’re going to… j-just make it quick for me okay?”

Rick regards him with disgust.

“Y-you’re a fucking _idiot_ , Morty!” he snarls before pointing the gun at his own temple.

“Rick!” Morty’s eyes widen in horror. No longer able ignore the panic gnawing at his chest, he thrashes against his restraints, which are now cutting brutally into his wrists and ankles. “Rick don’t! _Please!_ We-we-we can talk about this!”

Rick’s face is blank.

“I’ll…I’ll let you fuck me!” Morty offers. “I’ll be good. I’ll do… I’ll do anything you say, Rick. Just — Just _please_ … please don’t kill yourself.”

Rick’s eyes are wide. His pupils have dialled back to almost-normal-size now and he resembles a human again. Grey-faced, sick of everything, and tired beyond belief, but unmistakeably _human._

God, Morty has never seen his grandfather look so _old_.

Morty begs one last time, voice trembling. “D-don’t do it, Rick.”

“I have to.”

“I can’t!”

“ _I_ can’t.”

“Don’t make me watch you go,” Morty whispers. “Don’t leave me tied up here, alone. Don’t make me watch you disappear…”

Something darts across Rick’s face then. Something that makes his eyes widen and his mouth drop open.

Has Morty gotten through? Morty looks earnestly up into his grandfather’s — _yes, it’s definitely him, he’s sobering up, he’s back_ — silvery blue eyes.

“Rick…” Morty says softly. “I love you.”

Rick closes his eyes. “I just shat my pants, Morty.”

“Huh?”

With a bang of sparks followed by the stink of fresh faeces and burning hair, Rick collapses onto the floor.

 

Many hours pass before Morty stops screaming.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a hell of a ride wasn't it?
> 
> So I have a bit I want to say about this...  
> When I wrote this chapter -- about a month ago -- I was in an especially dark place, mentally. I was sexually assaulted in a taxi literally only two hours before writing it and for reasons I cannot explain this is how I coped. I then spent the next few days seriously considering killing myself. That was a month ago. I’m doing a bit better now. And that is the reason why there may be a number of clumsy spelling or grammatical areas in the chapter as I admit I have been struggling to edit this particular installment. 
> 
> Regardless, thank you everyone for reading. And thank you very much for your supportive kudos and comments so far. It's been... absolutely beyond words how much all your feedback has meant to me during this turbulent time in my life.  
> Thank you. All of you. 
> 
> \-- Snow


	4. We Began As Sadists

_"In our study of psychopathology, we began as sadists trying to produce abnormality. Today, we are psychiatrists trying to achieve normality and equanimity."_

— Harry Hallow:  'From Thought to Therapy: Lessons from a Primate Laboratory

* * *

 

 

Rick’s eyes crack open and he lets out a groan. The fluorescent light hums softly above him and it may as well be a mike feedback with how much the sound pierces his brain. He’s crumpled in a corner, lying in an awkward position with one ear tucked in against his shoulder and one arm flung out over his head. His head throbs in time with the flickering light, his mouth is tacky with the taste of old vomit, his cheek is pressed heavily against the cold floor, and his skin is sticky: itchy with layers of dried sweat.

 _Jeez_ , the room stinks. What the fuck did he _do_ last night?

He fumbles for the last vague, murky memory: worryingly listening to his grandson’s heart through a stethoscope after hooking him, drugged and restrained, to an IV line. He didn’t want to have to resort to that but there was a very real danger the kid would break the needle if he was left conscious and Rick was out of options:

Morty's heart had just dropped below forty beats per minute. 

Before that…

Rick shudders.

_…Morty shrinking back in terror as Rick stood over him, Morty sobbing and begging for Rick to stay away, Morty staring up at him with those unyielding dark eyes… pleading…_

Rick had never seen his grandson so afraid and the thought of the boy being afraid of _him_ made him sick to his stomach. Anger and self-hatred war with his sense of self-righteousness, causing his head to spin and leaving him with a cold hollow feeling deep in his chest.

 _I’m not the monster, Morty!_ Rick had wanted to yell. _I’m trying to save you!_

But he knows Morty could never see it that way. The kid’s too mentally ill to recognize a saviour when one is literally staring him in the face.

It takes a long time for Rick to tear his vision from the grey wall in front of him. He lifts his head—which weighs a tonne—and slowly sits up. The floor sways, as though he were on a boat, and looking anywhere except straight ahead makes him feel travel-sick. So Rick simply sits cross-legged and stares at the wall, waiting for the headache to fade enough for him to function.

He sniffs and reels.

Great. He slept in his own diarrhoea last night. It’s not the first time—nor is it the most disgusting thing he’s slept in—but it still isn’t pleasant. He runs a hand through his hair and feels how damp it is. Sweat, no doubt. Rick sighs. He needs a shower and coffee—not necessarily in that order—and probably something deep-fried and smothered in gravy.

When Rick holds his hand in front of his face, he’s suddenly jerked awake.

Blood. His hand is sticky with it.

He runs his hand through his hair again and finds himself wincing—there’s a tender spot above his ear which smarts when he touches it—and sure enough, blood—not sweat—coats his hair and probably half of his face. He looks down at his clothes and finds his lab coat splattered with the stuff. His ray gun lies in a pool of shit on the floor near him.

 _Fuck me…_ Rick thinks miserably. _What the hell_ happened _last night?_

He’s not too worried, of course, head-wounds tend to bleed a lot even if they aren’t particularly serious.

From one of the many pockets in Rick’s lab coat, he produces some effective eye-drops to help cure his dry and blurry vision. He blinks away the fog and shakes his head— _oof! Nope. Too sick for that_ —and swallows down the nausea that threatens to claw its way up his throat. Coffee still on the brain—and a weird hankering for meatballs for some reason—he slowly staggers to his feet and stretches, his bones cracking satisfactorily.

“ _Ooof..._ Hey Morty, y-you awake yet?” he asks groggily, turning slowly to look back at the operating table.

And once again, Rick feels the sudden urge to vomit.

The first sight that hits Rick is Morty’s face. His nose has been clearly broken again and blood has dried on Morty’s chin and chest. Rick’s gaze follows the drops of blood to stare, dismayed, at the angry red weals streaked across Morty’s torso.

The kid’s been whipped.

Rick’s breath comes in shaking gasps as he fights the urge to throw up. He’s not sure if he’s trembling from the sheer horror of the sight or if it’s the rage bubbling within him, ready to boil over and _kill_ whoever—

Rick’s eyes widen in realization. His blood chills as he looks back at the ray gun dropped haphazardly on the floor, remembers the blood in his hair—

_—Oh._

_(You wanna kill the monster?)_

_Oh no._

_(You already tried.)_

Furious tears blur Rick’s vision and he scrubs them away with his already-soiled sleeve. As he painfully swallows down a lump which has coagulated in his parched throat, he gingerly approaches Morty. To his relief, Morty  still remains unconscious.

Now that he’s closer, more details become clear: The stench of urine. The sickly smell of dried sweat and blood. The fingertip-shaped bruises which mar Morty’s neck. Morty’s bruised shoulder—the one which dislocated during their struggle in the hotel bathroom—has swelled up, forming a grotesque extra joint.

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep down the rising bile, Rick removes the now-empty IV bag and replaces it with a second bag of nutrition formula. He repositions the table so Morty’s lying flat and sets to work.

Rick peels back the restraints to find Morty’s wrists and ankles have been chafed raw and bleeding beneath the leather.

Morty must have fought with everything he had.

Rick fetches himself a damp cloth and a bowl of warm water from the sink in the adjacent room and begins gently dabbing at Morty’s blood-streaked face.

Morty groans softly and Rick stills.

“Hm?” Morty mumbles. “Rick…?”

Rick doesn’t speak. He can’t. What on earth can he say to the kid? Rick resumes cleaning the blood from Morty’s face as Morty lets out a pained sigh before going limp, his eyes drooping closed once more.

Rick resumes washing him. Carefully sponging the blood from Morty’s mouth. Morty looks at least five years younger when he sleeps and the sheer vulnerability of him leaves Rick feeling worse than ever.

Why did he have to drink so much?

As Morty surfaces again his eyes widen in surprise and his face pales. Rick stops again, respecting that Morty probably won’t want to be touched, least of all by him.

“Are you—Rick, are you okay?” Morty breathes, his forehead knitted with concern.

Rick blinks.

Well… _that_ was not what he expected.

When Rick doesn’t respond right away, Morty attempts to sit up on the table but hisses as the pain in his dislocated shoulder suddenly hits him. “ _Fuck!_ Oh—oh _jeez…”_

“Shh… stay down,” Rick instructs him. “Don’t try to talk.”

“A-are you alr _ight?”_ Morty repeats. His voice cracking. “Rick? T-talk to me.”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” Rick replies crossly.

Rick can't meet Morty's huge doleful gaze and scowls pointedly at the kid's wounds, which he treats a little rougher than he probably should. _I_ _'m being efficient,_ Rick justifies silently. Only Morty would be sympathetic to the monster who tortured him. Rick could throttle the kid for his stupid bleeding heart.

Tears begin streaming down Morty’s temples and onto the table, and Rick chokes on a lump which has appeared in his throat. He gentles his touch, if only slightly.

“Y-You—” Morty sobs. “Aw jeez, Rick, I-I thought I’d lost you.”

Rick gnaws painfully on the inside of his cheek. Morty’s actually crying over… over _him?_

He doesn’t know whether to slap the boy or throw his arms around him. So, with uncertainty reigning supreme, Rick does neither. Instead takes the water bowl to the sink and empties it—he doesn’t look down at its contents, unable to pretend Morty’s blood isn’t tinting the water pink—and refills it with water that’s cleaner and warmer. He brings it back and gently dabs at the tear-streaks on Morty’s temples while Morty sobs quietly. Rick shushes him soothingly, knowing bitterly that no amount of care can wash away what he’s done.

The pair don’t speak for a long time. Rick dabs at Morty’s face, neck and chest as gently as he can before moving to clean up the boy's raw wrists and ankles. Morty hisses under his breath, causing Rick’s chest to ache with an unnamed emotion and Rick sweats under the strain of deliberately keeping his face blank.

Even worse is the way Morty is looking at him, gazing adoringly up at Rick’s face like he’s thanking every god that’s ever existed that Rick is here and alive and okay.

Rick steals a longing glance at the ray gun discarded in the corner.

 

* * *

 

When the blood and sweat have been wiped away, Morty shoots Rick an appreciative smile, which leaves Rick’s mouth parched and his heart wounded. That nameless emotion is throbbing in his head and needs a reprieve. He steps back from his grandson, feeling light-headed, sick, and _so_ thirsty.

“I… I need a drink,” Rick says softly.

“No!” Morty shoots upright and then curses angrily, gripping his shoulder and clenching his jaw.

“Morty!”

“N-No more drinking, Rick!” Morty says fiercely. “Seriously, Rick. I can’t—can’t take this anymore!”

“I didn’t mean alcohol, dipshit!” Rick rolls his eyes. “I m-m-meant espresso or something. Jeez!”

Morty’s still glaring at him and clutching his shoulder. He swears under his breath and Rick approaches him tentatively.

“Let me see it,” he orders.

Morty hesitates. Rick tuts at him and rolls his eyes.

“C’mon Morty, don’t—don’t be stubborn.”

Morty shoots him a death-glare and then drops his gaze, carefully lowering his hand from his injured shoulder. Rick examines it carefully, he is as gentle as he can manage but Morty still flinches at Rick’s touch. The sudden jerky movement causing him to inhale sharply and he squeezes his watering eyes shut.

“Easy…” Rick murmurs. “I-It’s okay, Morty.”

Morty’s lip is quivering and Rick, despite telling himself he won’t touch his grandson unnecessarily, gently ruffles the boy’s hair like he used to when Morty was younger. Morty looks up at him in surprise.

Rick stares.

Morty looks so young like this. All wide eyes and fawn-limbs. He will be handsome soon with a bit of muscle on his bones, but right now he looks like he did when Rick first started dragging him on adventures, a childlike sense of wonder making way for just enough fear and anxiety to keep him safe. Back then, Rick made whatever excuses he could in order to keep him. Convincing him school was useless. Never allowing him to quit their adventures. Even resorting to bribery.

Rick swallows thickly.

_(You sick fucking animal. You fell for him long ago.)_

 Rick breaks away from the earthy dark of Morty’s eyes and reaches into one of the many metal drawers containing medical supplies in order to fish out one of the many syringes he keeps around which contains the serum for broken bones.

“Morty?” He asks.

Morty shrinks back warily, his eyebrows knit together questioningly and he tilts his head slightly to one side.

Rick coughs nervously.

“L-Let me?”

“Oh!” Morty’s eyes widen with understanding. He gulps and looks away. Rick almost notices a hint of blush in the boy's cheeks and looks away quickly.

_(You don’t get to look at him like that. Not anymore.)_

Finally Morty nods. “Oh-k-kay, Rick.”

With Morty's consent, Rick rounds the table and gently pries Morty’s fingers away from his bruised skin before stabbing the syringe into Morty’s dislocated shoulder. After a sharp intake of breath they both hear the bone pop back into place and Morty’s pinched face softens in relief. He breathes deeply, and then smiles dopily up at Rick.

Rick resists the stifling urge to adjust his pants.

“Th-that stuff never ceases to amaze me, Rick,” he grins appreciatively, “h-hey, I—I think it fixed my ribs too!”

Rick pulls out the Dipshit Device.

Sure enough.

“Y- _Yeehhep_ ,” he burps into his fist. “Ribs, nose, shoulder… all— _eerrrhhhp_ —a-all better, Morty.”

Rick turns his back on Morty and fetches the stool—which is upside-down and flung into the corner of the room for some reason—in order to sit down. He pulls out his flask and Morty’s eyes narrow.

“What?” Rick glares.

“I-I said I don’t w-want you drinking, Rick!” Morty protests as he slides off the table and onto his shaky legs. He takes a step forward only to realize the IV line is still attached to him, preventing him from moving any closer. Morty glares at it before turning angrily to Rick. “Y-y-you can’t do what you did to me last—last night and still think that’s okay.”

Rick pauses with the flask halfway to his lips. He lowers it carefully onto his lap. “Last night was a _blackout,_ Morty. I-It’s different.”

“And it only—it only happens because you—y-you can barely tell the difference between being drunk and being sober!” Morty argues.

Rick feels weak at the knees. He’s glad he’s sitting down.

“Y-Yeah, guess we got into a bit of a pickle last night, didn’t we Morty?” he says dismissively as he pulls another swig from his hip flask. “My bad.”

Morty’s jaw drops.

 _“We?”_ Morty whispers incredulously, “you’re actually blaming _me_ for wh-what happened last night?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Rick chortles. “Obviously. At least in _part_ , y’know?”

 _“Obviously?”_ Morty gapes at him. “Y-Y-You fucking _tortured_ me, Rick!”

“YEAH!” Rick roars. Suddenly finding himself on his feet and shaking with... _fear? No._ Fury. “I did, Morty! And you know what? We—w-we wouldn’t even _be_ here if you hadn’t tormented _me_ for months!”

“What?”

“Oh you _idiot,_ Morty!” Rick slaps a hand to his forehead and shuts his eyes. _“Think_ about it, Morty y-you—you stupid fuckwit! You spend all this time starving yourself, cutting yourself, recklessly throwing yourself into danger… a-a-and then when I _warned_ you that I’d do something like this, you had to go right ahead and _test_ me! Wh-wh-what the—what the fuck did you think would happen, Morty? Do… do I have a reputation for making idle threats?"

“You didn’t have to torture me!” Morty yells. “I didn’t whip _myself_ with that!” Morty points at the belt lying discarded on the floor.

 _“Wrong!”_ Rick folds his arms. “D-Do you have any idea, Morty, what it’s like to watch someone destroy themselves and know you can’t do anything to stop it?”

“Yeah!” Morty shouts, tears now streaming down his cheeks. “I know _exactly_ what that feels like, Rick!”

“THEN YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE FUCKING PUT ME THROUGH!”

There it is. The confession of a lifetime.

Morty goes still, his arms drop to his sides.

“What I’ve…?”

“Ugh!” Rick throws his hands up in exasperation. “Do you have any idea how close you came, Morty? You were just _days_ away, Morty! Just days—possibly even _hours_ —away from-from-from…” Rick shakes his head. He closes his eyes and sighs, running a hand through his damp hair and pulling irately at the strands, the wound above his temple smarts angrily and Rick resists the urge to curse. “Morty, you were _this_ close to a cardiac arrest,” Rick explains desperately, “a-a-and you wouldn’t let me help! Y-You wouldn’t let me intervene! So I had to resort to—” Rick vaguely waves a hand at the mortician’s table, “—y’know.”

Morty doesn’t speak.

Rick slumps back down onto his seat.

“And you had to get black-out-drunk in order to do it?” Morty says sceptically, folding his arms over his chest.

Rick shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Y-You realize of course that makes absolutely no sense.”

 _Correct._ Rick thinks ruefully. _It’s senseless and illogical and irrational. But I’ll come up with a cure to this madness. I may be attached to you now, you little shit, but I can fix that…_

_(No you can’t.)_

_I can replace him. Forget him._

_(No you won’t.)_

_Attachments like this are nothing more than a pointless expression of familiarity over time. Pleasurable in the moment but ultimately serve little purpose outside of procreation. And look where procreation led! A perverted sexual attraction to…_

_(But it’s more than that isn’t it?)_

_...to my own…_

“Unless…”

Rick’s blood chills at the rich smugness in his grandson’s voice.

“Wait, hang on a sec Morty!” Rick hastily interrupts.

Morty lifts his gaze to meet Rick’s, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

Rick’s eyes narrow. “What—whatever y-you’re thinking Morty…”

“Nah, it’s fine Rick,” Morty smirks. “I get it.”

Rick glares. “There’s nothing to _get_ , Morty! I’m not being—y’know— _coy_ here or anything.”

“Rick,” Morty says his name  _very_ patiently (which irritates Rick a lot more than it should), “I understand d-dignity is pretty important to a patriarch. So—y’know—I-I’m not gonna make you say it.” Morty looks like he’s on the brink of laughter. “Just… love you too, man.”

“Oh fuck off, Morty!” Rick huffs. “Y-y-you little turd, you—y-you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

 _“Riiiight,”_ Morty’s still smirking and Rick isn’t sure whether he wants to smack the little turd or... or...

Rick must grudgingly admit, seeing the light back in Morty’s eyes fills him with something rich and warm which he didn’t realize he’d missed until he finally found it again. But Rick is still _Rick_ and he hates being bested in an argument. Especially when he’s being bested by a fucking _moron_.

“You know, arguing with you is like… is like playing three-dimensional-chess with a… with a Glip-Glop, Morty. N-n-no matter how many strategic moves you make, they just throw the pieces around and shit themselves and then act like they won!”

“Aw jeez, is that why you always wear brown pants, Rick?”

“J-Just shut up, Morty!”

Morty snickers and Rick looks away angrily. A part of him—and Rick isn’t entirely sure how prominent that part might be—is almost _proud_. The student becomes the teacher and whatnot. But it’s still annoying and Morty’s still an idiot who would be dead right now if it weren’t for him. He ought to be acting a little less cheeky and a little more grateful.

“H-Hey Rick?”

“What?” Rick snaps.

“C-can you let me go?” Morty asks, suddenly timid.

Rick sneers. “I already did, dummy. That’s why y-you’re standing there and not still strapped to the… to the table!”

“I meant this,” Morty waves the IV drip at him. “Could you… could you take it out?”

Rick’s smile falters.

Morty continues to look up at him nervously and the pair stand silently for a moment, an argument that could never be put into words is warring between them as neither party dares to break eye contact.

Eventually, Rick says slowly, “I-If… I do… which I’m not... not promising I will, Morty... wh-what do you p-plan on doing? Where do you plan on going?”

“The bathroom,” Morty replies.

_…At least he’s being honest._

“And what are y-you going to do in there?” Rick asks sternly.

Morty sounds almost amused. “I-I need to take a whizz, Rick.”

“Oh.” Rick pulls out the Dipshit Device and has a quick scroll through the functions. “So you do.”

“S-so could you unhook me please?” Morty asks again, crossing his legs and looking uncomfortably desperate.

Rick looks at Morty, all elbows and knees and ribs and skin so pale he could be something supernatural. The IV drip doesn’t help the look: it makes Morty look like a terminal patient. Though, Rick supposes, Morty kind of is. Even if the hospital is just a repurposed storage locker and his doctor is his sick-bastard grandfather.

“No.” Rick decides.

Morty pales, “wh…what?”

“You heard me.”

“What the—? What in the _FUCK?!”_ Morty’s face flushes with indignation. “Wh-what-what am I s-supposed to do then?”

“I’ll get you a bucket.”

“You'll—? You've got to be _kidding_ me!” Morty cries angrily. “Y-you’re gonna make me piss and poop in a _bucket_ while you feed me through an IV drip?”

“Yeh— _errrrp_ —yeah, looks like.”

“Are you just trying to humiliate me, Rick? Is that what this is all… what this is all about? Or is this your own s-sick version of the movie Misery?”

“No, Morty, this is about saving your sorry worthless life! I…I tried the nice way, remember Morty? I tried. Y-you went and puked your guts out in the bathroom. So now we have to do this instead.”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Morty snarls. But there isn’t realistically any argument. And when Rick hands him the bucket he obediently uses it.

 

* * *

 

Rick looks away, kindly preserving Morty's fleeting dignity, which is the least the man can do given the circumstances. Morty is still furious with him and pees quickly, fuming. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to take a shit (the room smells bad enough already.)

When he turns, Rick is taking another long gulp from his hip-flask. The open-wound on Rick’s scalp where the laser beam grazed him still bleeds though not nearly as badly as it did when it was fresh.

Morty had been so sure Rick had killed himself. He stared at Rick's crumpled form for hours, trying to convince himself he could still see his grandfather's shallow breaths and then miserably dismissing such hopeful thoughts as wishful thinking.

And then he awoke with Rick standing over him, unibrow creased with all the seriousness in the world while he dabbed at Morty’s wounds with a damp cloth. He was obviously sober though, for which Morty was eternally grateful.

Once again, Rick was so gentle—so unlike what Morty had learned to expect—Morty wondered if it was really Rick looking after him. How could the same person relentlessly torture him and then fourteen hours later be tending to him with all the care and tenderness of a lover? And all the while, Rick looked at Morty like he was nothing more than an uncooperative lab rat.

 _Rick’s complicated,_ Morty reminds himself.

But it’s not a particularly satisfying conclusion.

Rick’s busying himself with tidying the storage locker. The place is a mess and it’s going to need to be sterilized again but Morty’s glad his grandfather’s tending to some of the damage, at least for the sake of his sense of _smell…_

“Rick…?” Morty says, looking worriedly at the gash above his grandfather’s temple.

“Mm?”

“Y-your head is still bleeding, Rick,” Morty explains, “you’ll need to do some—something about that.”

“Oh…”

Rick raises a hand to the wound and winces as his fingertips dip into the raw skin. Morty bites his lip in sympathy.

“I… I can stitch it up?” Morty offers kindly. “I—y’know—know how, I mean.”

Rick hesitates, which is fair enough. Morty knows—in theory at least—how to stitch up a wound. He took a mandatory first aid class for P.E. credit and he has seen enough episodes of Scrubs to get the basic idea. He can’t guarantee he won’t do a hatchet job of it but he can still try, and he knows it’s going to be impossible for his grandfather to stitch _himself_ up, not when the wound is above eye-level.

Rick regards Morty very _very_ coldly for a moment and Morty shrinks back, his neck disappearing deep into his collarbone.

It’s strange: after Rick has called him stupid and worthless and all sorts of cruel names over the years, it is only now—with just a _look_ —that for the first time, Morty feels thoroughly _told off._

With an angry sigh, Rick drags the chair over to the operating table, he rummages in one of the nearby metal drawers, pulls out the necessary equipment, and bangs them onto the little wheeled table which is usually littered with syringes and scalpels.

After downing the last drop from his trusty hip-flask, Rick sits down with a huffing sound and positions his head for easy access.

Morty is dumbstruck. It takes a moment for it to sink in before Morty realizes with a swell of gratitude that Rick is actually trusting him to do this. Rick knows Morty’s ultimately useless at everything, but he’s willing to let Morty _try._ And that knowledge alone has left Morty’s whole body tingling with absolute joy.

Morty picks up the saline solution first but thinks better of it and instead picks up the clippers in order to first shave around the injured area. Rick doesn't question or protest, just sits still and waits.

Morty threads the needle on the third try.

“Th-this may sting a bit,” he says kindly.

“Duh,” Rick grunts in reply.

 

* * *

 

“I wish…” Rick slumps back in his seat when Morty has finally finished, “I wish I could…could take it all back. I wish I could start all over again, another timeline, another world without any of this… I wish you and I could just… _bomb_ all of them and away and…

“No bombs!” Morty yells suddenly.

Rick winces in pain. _“Sheezus,_ Morty, I’m still hungover, y’know?” Rick sips from his hip flask. “But, yeah, you’re— _bruuurp_ —right. Y-y-you know I have a pr-pretty deadly virus in the garage which can—"

“Rick!” Morty protests. “You can’t just—j-just go on a bender and des-destroy a bunch of—destroy everything—every time you get emotional. It’s not a h-healthy way of coping with stuff, y’know?”

“Oh and…and your way _is?”_ Rick sneers. “You’ve been acting like a fifteen-year-old girl circa 2007. It’s _pathetic!”_

“It’s a hell of a lot better than whatever this is!” Morty shouts, gesturing at the stitches on his grandfather’s head.

“You nearly killed yourself!”

“So did you!”

Rick’s out of his seat and in Morty’s face in an instant. His breath stinks of stomach bile and vodka. Morty reels in disgust. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand, Morty!”

“Then I w-wont talk, instead I’ll _listen,_ ” Morty tries for calm but his voice breaks. “Why?”

Rick looks away.

“Oh—oh I thought I was working with a—with a genius,” Morty taunts cruelly, “guess there are some questions e-even you can’t answer, Rick.”

“Won’t.” Rick corrects tersely.

“Fine!” Morty blasts. “Then answer me this: w-why didn’t you come to visit me in the hospital?”

Rick’s mouth is a thin defiant line. Morty glares up at him, daring him to answer. Rick just stares in silent reply.

Finally, after a long nasty pause, Rick speaks.

“I did.”

Morty scoffs. “Don’t bullshit me, Rick!”

“N-no…” Rick sighs. For a fleeting moment, Rick looks genuinely remorseful and Morty quiets. “I did visit you, Morty. I… while you slept.”

“While I—?” Morty shakes his head. “When?!”

Rick looks away. “Th-this is stupid, Morty. Why do you want to ask such—”

“You’re lying,” Morty rolls his eyes. “Y-you’re just trying to get me to drop the issue. You didn’t visit me. You wouldn’t bother—"

“Every night.”

Morty goes quiet.

“I avoided it at first,” Rick explains stiffly, “’cause you piss me off, Morty! The way you can’t s-seem to fucking look after yourself! But then… then I visited once and I just… kept coming back. I dunno. S-so you got your precious Grandpa visit, okay Morty? Y-You can stop whining now!”

Morty’s eyes narrow.

“Why only when I was asleep?”

“’Cause I can’t stand the sound of y-your annoying barely-made-it-through-puberty _voice_ , Morty!” Rick snaps.

“—Is it because you kissed me?”

“Morty—j-just—c’mon bro…”

“No don’t ‘c’mon bro’ _me,_ asshole!” Morty retaliates, “you can’t... you can’t keep _doing_ this to me, Rick.”

“Yeah, well, tough titties. I-It’s not up for discussion.”

Rick gets out of his seat and makes his way to the door.

“You’re _leaving?!”_ Morty gapes, dumbfounded.

“Yep.”

Morty looks around himself. He’s still connected to the IV drip. “You—you can’t just leave me here like this, Rick!”

“Can and will. You’ve got your bucket, y-you’re not exactly gonna run out of _food_ , Morty. I’ll be back with some clothes for you in a couple of hours.” Rick shrugs off his signature lab coat and throws it onto the table. "Here." He grumbles. "In case you get cold."

Morty's mouth falls open but before he can protest, Rick has already swept out of the room. The door bangs shut behind him, sending a reverberating echo around the storage locker.

Then silence.

For the first time in hours, Morty is alone.


	5. Very Good Advice

“I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

—Lewis Carroll, _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

 

 

Improvement happens in steps over the course of several days.

They tackle each moment—each hour—as a team.

First, Rick manages to leave Morty alone for several hours while he portals to a department store which has his grandson’s favourite kind of yellow shirt and jeans. He journeys back to the hotel next since he’s overdue for a change of clothes himself and spoils himself with a shower while he’s there. The next step will be letting Morty off the IV drip and trusting him to go to the bathroom on his own. Then he'll take the kid out to lunch somewhere on a trial-run. 

When Rick returns, Morty’s still standing patiently next to the table. He looks bored but he hasn’t puked. Rick smiles at him and Morty raises an eyebrow.

“You showered.”

“You jealous?”

Morty purses his lips. “Maybe.”

Rick places the clothes on the table next to Morty and watches as Morty lifts each item for inspection and frowns.

“S-s _uhhh_ mething wrong?” Rick asks, nonchalantly sipping at his flask.

“No, it’s just… they’re _new.”_

“Yeah, and?”

“I thought you’d just wash the old ones.”

Rick shrugs and looks away quickly. The truth is, the old ones are now back at the house. But for reasons he can’t acknowledge, he wants to spoil the kid with something fresher.

Rick hums to himself, tutting quietly under his breath and when he turns back to Morty, his grandson lets out a small shriek.

“What?” Rick frowns, puzzled.

“T-Turn around will you?” Morty cries as he hastily covers himself again with the soiled towel.

Rick narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Wh-wh-what d’you mean ‘why’? _Rick!_ I’m… c- _c’mon, man!”_

“Fine, fine!” Rick shrugs as he turns to face the wall. “But y’know, eh— _eeuuurrph—_ it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Morty.”

There’s a nasty silence between them as Rick realizes with a shock what he has just confessed.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Rick?” Morty asks coolly.

“I _mean_ , _”_ Rick sighs. “You _know_ I’ve seen you naked before.”

“At… at the hotel? Before you brought me here?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Rick…”

Of course it wasn’t really _Morty._ It had been a simulation. And it wasn’t even a good one. But it had affected Rick deeply and badly enough that he’d gone on one hell of a bender that night.

And he couldn’t forget. He must have drank, norted, injected and fucked everything from Io to Callisto. But no matter what he did to himself he couldn’t scrub away the revolting  _thing_ that had stained his mind. It wasn't just the unease of wondering where the simulation ended and reality began, it wasn’t the disturbing sight of Morty being paraded about with his adolescent body on full display; it wasn’t even that the Zigerions dared use his grandson to get to him—as though they’d noticed his obsession with the boy before even Rick could acknowledge it to himself.

It was the cold hard fact that Rick _enjoyed_ it.

The entire pod-ride home, Rick struggled to conceal the worst and most persistent boner of his goddamned life (and that’s saying something!) while Morty’s own father sat next to him, none-the-wiser.

Thankfully, the man was too stupid and self-centered to notice and kept muttering some nonsense about apples throughout their awkward journey. Meanwhile, Rick tried desperately to blame his rock-hard erection on the fact that he’d just destroyed the self-diagnosed “smartest people in the universe.”

After all, explosions do get him hard.

But... tanned skin, lithe limbs sprinting after him, awkward blush in his cheeks spreading down to his chest, the way he’d fought Rick to get his pants back with the amount of assertiveness Rick had always hoped to inspire, the way he’d covered himself so bashfully, and the adorably infuriated look on his sweet face when Rick stuffed his clothes down the drain.

Rick had stared.

And no matter what Rick did, he couldn't stop himself from staring.

He had tried not to be obvious about it, of course, but every time Morty looked away, Rick raked his gaze over his grandson’s body. He promised himself he’d stop, that he wouldn’t take it further. But then Morty turned at the wrong moment and… _smiled_.

It was as though—Rick's stomach leaped at the thought—Morty _enjoyed_ the sight of Rick staring at him.

“Aw jeez, Rick.” Morty bit his lip and looked up at Rick from under thick eyelashes. “Y-You seem flushed.”

Rick’s blood ran cold. Nothing to hide the erection on full display between his legs. He gulped and said softly. “Oh-ohh-on second thought, Morty. L-Let’s get some clothes.”

But Morty had caught him and Rick couldn’t hide it now.

“It’s okay, Rick,” Morty said shyly.

“It—what?” Rick frowned. “Morty don’t—d-don’t read too much into this, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Rick,” the false Morty had promised. His eyes lighting up with just enough warmth and fondness to make Rick’s stomach do a back-flip. _“I won’t.”_

And that was the moment, wasn’t it? Those two words and _The Look_ Morty had worn when Rick realized—not that he could admit it at to himself at the time—that the boy wasn’t just a human shield, a camouflage, or even a sidekick. When Morty looked at him like that, every trace of pain Rick could feel wasn’t just numbed but _cured;_ leaving Rick weightless, breathless, terrified, yet totally invincible.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real. From that point on, Rick had been addicted.

Morty Smith was the ultimate drug. The prescription he would never cease to abuse: The perfect painkiller.

Rick quickly wrenches himself from the memory.

“We’re not discussing this, Morty.”

“Rick, what—”

“I need some air.”

Rick is out of the storage locker in only a second, slamming the door behind him with a satisfyingly loud  _BANG!_

He strides determinedly to the vehicle and leans against it, his head in his hands. The wound on the side of his head still smarts but it isn’t throbbing as much as it was earlier. Even if the kid did a crappy job, he was at least hygienic about it. Tilting his head up to the stars, Rick closes his eyes and sighs out of his nostrils. 

There aren't nights or days on the asteroid, which is something Rick actually quite likes. He prefers to be away from Time. Futures and Pasts can blend together in the multiverse and with enough alcohol Rick won't have to think about...

About...

 

When a necessary amount of time has passed for Morty to finish getting his pants on, Rick steps back into the storage locker. He leans over to unhook Morty’s IV line and carefully places a band-aid over the bleeding site.

“Let’s get going, Morty.” he announces and Morty nods enthusiastically, clearly relieved at the notion of finally getting out of the storage locker. “I dunno about you M _OHH_ rty, but I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rick slides into the booth and picks up a menu.

“Wh-what do y'feel like, Morty?” he asks. “Uh-unfortunately this place won’t serve eyehole cereal anymore because of the accidents but they—they make a _mean_ Kukura Egg omelette, Morty. Seriously, it’s am- _ehhrp-_ azing Morty, it melts in ya—” Rick frowns. “Morty?”

Morty’s not sitting down.

Instead, the kid is kind of… _hovering_ next to the seat. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, and his eyes keep darting back and forth from the seat to the floor. Rick's reminded of the boy back when he was thirteen, when Rick first ordered him to park his ass up on his work bench so he could receive a series of important injections.

When Rick raises an eyebrow at him, Morty shrugs in a failed attempt to seem at ease. “I-I’m good, Rick. Wh-what’s this place’s equivalent to bacon and eggs?”

“Uh, that’d be _bacon and eggs,_ Morty,” Rick rolls his eyes and looks back down at the diner menu. “N-n-not every other dimension is a sci-fi wonderland, Morty. S-some dimensions are just C-137 with a gimmick, y’know?”

“L-Like Space Australia, Rick?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Morty shuffles his feet again, clicking the toes of his shoes together and once again drawing Rick’s irritated attention away from the menu.

Morty looks… odd. His expression uneasy and strained. Rick’s reminded of Morty when he needs to pee except right now Morty’s keeping his knees widely apart.

Something’s wrong, he can sense it.

“S-sit down will you?” Rick grumbles.

Morty doesn’t move.

Rick puts down the menu and turns to look more discriminately at his grandson, setting aside any familial bonds in order to analyze the boy with the keen assessing gaze of a predator.

Morty, obviously sensing the critical gaze, hastily turns away with a blush in his cheeks that would, without a doubt, be mistaken for embarrassment by anyone else. But Rick knows Morty better than that.

Rick’s eyes narrow and Morty breaks into a nervous sweat.

“Gotta—uh—gotta— _gottausetherestroom…”_ Morty mumbles incoherently in his haste. He shuffles away quickly. Rick is about to turn back to his menu— _kid wants to be weird, let him be weird_ —but does a double-take when he notices the unnatural width of the boy’s stride.

Morty’s limping. But it’s the wrong kind of limp for an injured limb. That unsteady gait… that familiar wide stance Rick saw once before at—

_No!_

Rick’s blood chills. The walls close in around him.

_No, please, please God no..._

Rick’s out of his seat in a flash, he seizes Morty’s arm—earning him a “hey, w-what gives?”—and with another hand fisting the back of the boy's shirt he roughly manhandles him out of the diner.

“Sir?” a sweet-looking waitress trills as he leaves and Rick shoots her a death-glare, silencing her immediately.

Rick doesn’t speak a word as he drags Morty back to the ship. Morty struggles, of course, stubborn as ever. He can hear the kid protesting and arguing and questioning as usual, but Rick ignores every sentence. They are _not_ having this discussion in the middle of a crowded diner.

Rick can’t believe he missed it. The kid didn’t sit down _once_ during their time at the storage locker and when Rick got back after god-knows-how-long, Morty was still standing there. Not only that, now that Rick thinks back on it, the kid didn’t do up his seatbelt in the ship. He was sitting on the very edge of his seat the entire drive, shuffling his weight from side-to-side. Rick just thought it was just one of Morty’s weird little autistic quirks and had dismissed it as soon as he’d seen it.

_Stupid! Stupid!_

When they get to the ship, Rick callously flings Morty into it and Morty yelps when his ass hits the seat.

Rick’s heart breaks at the sound.

_That clinches it._

Rick slams the door on Morty before striding to the other side and getting in, zooming them up and out of earth’s atmosphere as fast as possible in order to engage in one of the most private and serious of conversations. The familiar earth falls away, disintegrating into nothing more than a small blue ball surrounded by darkness. As clouds and then stars rush past the window, Rick senses Morty’s mounting unease and tries his best to ignore it; Morty’s shuffling in his seat as though he can’t get comfortable.

Rick gnaws grotesquely on the inside of his cheek.

Every scrape of denim against leather, very nervous sigh or breath from Morty only serves to further tarnish his already stained mood. He can hear Morty’s bitten nails digging nervously into the upholstery and Rick has to bite back the urge to lash out and break the annoying little shit’s nose for the millionth time. He chews his tongue and fixes his eyes straight ahead, sensing Morty’s apprehension and responding to it with his own tense displeasure.

Finally, when Rick is at last satisfied they’re high enough—Earth Dimension J-355 nothing more than a tiny blue pin-prick in the far distance—he rounds on the kid.

Morty flinches back in alarm when he sees Rick’s face.

“Tell me,” Rick snarls as shades of red tinge his peripheral. “Tell me what happened, Morty.”

“R-Rick…” Morty begins, “wh-what do you…I-I don’t know what y—”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean, Morty,” Rick growls, low and cruel.

There’s no room for lies or evasion here. Rick has run out of patience.

Morty is shaking his head vigorously and hastily backing up against the ship’s door. Even though they’re out in space, Morty’s right hand flails desperately in search of the door handle.

_Nope. That’s not gonna happen._

Rick seizes the front of Morty’s T-shirt and yanks him to his chest, staring intently down into Morty’s terrified face. Morty’s sweating profusely, his eyes wide with fear—pinprick pupils amongst warm brown irises—they dart everywhere but Rick’s own gaze, desperately searching for any means of escape.

_Too bad._

“Tell me,” Rick repeats, his tone icy as he tries desperately to stop his voice from shaking, “during my blackout, tell me what I did to you.”

Morty struggles, he shakes his head again and pulls pathetically against Rick’s grip. But the boy hasn’t properly regained his strength yet and his attempts prove worthless.

“Rick…” Morty sobs, “…please…”

Rick’s resolve hardens, the fist clenching the front of Morty’s T-shirt tightens. He gives Morty a rough shake, choking down the urge to ring the boy’s wretched little neck. Morty whimpers and his eyes close.

“Rick… that _hurts…”_

Rick's irritation sharpens into maddening savagery as he yanks Morty across his lap, reaching over to brutally dig his knuckles into the denim-covered cleft of Morty's behind. Morty's asshole may be shielded by his new jeans but the brutal act still draws a pained howl from the boy's throat. 

Rick lifts the boy back upright and glares into his face.

 _"Well?"_ He spits.

And Morty breaks.

Resigned, miserable, and with a look of absolute undeniable shame, Morty tells Rick everything. His cheeks are flush with shame and wet with tears and as much as it hurts them both, Rick insists on every foul profane detail and Morty—and Rick has to give props to the little trooper—with a grave and broken expression relives the entire ordeal from the night before.

It is no small relief that amidst torturing the boy, Rick didn’t manage go through with what he’d been craving since that day the Zigerions kidnapped him and Jerry.

He’d originally promised himself he’d never do it. Not because it was too deplorable or "evil" but because, as amoral as Rick is, rape always seemed—amongst other things— _weak_. After all, Rick could smooth-talk kings into selling him their daughters in exchange for literal _dust_ , he could sell a goldfish to a goldfish, he didn't have to use physical force to convince anyone to fuck him.

...And—okay—yeah, alright. He might be morally complex but molesting a kid was _maybe_ going a bit far…

That was until the urges started to become twisted and depraved; evolving into sick fantasies which then inevitably evolved into dreams that left his sheets moist and tented in the middle of the night. And after a while it was all Rick could do not to grab those narrow hips and wipe that thoughtless little smirk off the kid’s face; watch his bright eyes widen in dismayed surprise as Rick spun him around and bent him over his workbench.

And Rick can’t _(won’t)_ find a cure.

Rick hates Morty. He can finally admit that freely.

He hates the kid for being annoying, useless, arrogant and still unforgettable. He hates his selflessness and his kindness, his idealism. He hates him for making him want him, teasing him by being just out of Rick’s reach. And he hates the universe for creating them both and torturing them.

He wishes the boy had never been born.

…And then there came that day he almost lost the stupid kid.

The collar broke and Rick had a choice to make. He threw himself into the abyss and swapped their places without even thinking about it. An old man dying so a boy could live? It wasn’t even a question.

But it should have been.

And then Morty threw himself into danger _again_ —just to save fucking _Jerry_ of all people—and Rick felt like Reality Herself had ground to a halt because suddenly he was throwing himself after the boy once more in order to save him. Everything slowed down as the heat blinded him and adrenaline pulsed through him, he saw the flames engulf the boy and all he could think was… _No._

_Take anyone. Take everyone._

  
  
You can’t take Him.

 

The decision had been made for him then. He’d denied himself for too long. He would have the boy for himself that night. After all, if the kid had such little regard for his own wellbeing then—well—he was just getting what he deserved wasn’t he? Rick was just fucked up enough to rationalize it. He’d even be merciful and drug the kid, make it easy for him, and he could always blast the boy with a memory gun for good measure. And if that didn’t work? If he had to muck about with trauma or some other planetary social hang-ups? Earth Dimension T-99 had an empty Rick-shaped space he could easily slip into.

Rick could get it all out of his system, repercussion-free.

…But then Morty fucking _kissed him back_ and it wrecked everything! Rick could never imagine Morty would actually be _okay_ with his grandfather kissing him. It was an unforeseen fucked-up side-effect which stopped Rick in his tracks completely and caused him to re-evaluate everything.

Because how could he possibly hurt Morty now?

_(Go on, say it)_

Now that Morty had given him a taste of what he _actually_ wanted.

_(Say it)_

_I’m in…_

“Rick? S-say—say something, man.”

Reality slams back into place and Rick jerks in surprise. He blinks, frowning down at Morty who is still wide-eyed with discomfort, he’s still fisting the kid’s dorky yellow T-shirt but Morty doesn’t look nearly as alarmed or afraid anymore. He just looks concerned.

And somehow that’s even worse.

Drugged, tortured, humiliated, and sexually assaulted and all Morty can do his express altruistic concern for the monster who did it? Rick could _beat_ the little shit for being so stupid! He should! The kid’s probably never been properly disciplined in his life…

He looks down at the boy with undisguised revulsion and Morty flinches.

Rick wants to merely let go of him but instead of simply opening his hand, Rick finds himself suddenly shoving Morty away from him in an act more cold and vicious than Rick would have otherwise intended.

Morty gives Rick a small hurt look and, feeling awkward, Rick clears his throat and looks away.

“M-Morty…” he mutters, staring straight ahead. The initial disgust has ebbed, leaving only coagulated self-hatred and the dull familiar feeling of his own internal agony.

 _Fuck,_ he's fucking _thirsty…_

Rick gropes clumsily at the inner pockets of his lab coat. The kid looked so horrified earlier when he saw Rick take a swig from his flask. But even with that look still haunting him, Rick can’t stop drinking.

He can’t stop.

Can’t stop.

No matter what Rick does; he just can’t stop.

“I…” Rick pulls out his hip flask and drains it. He doesn’t dare look at Morty’s no-doubt disappointed face and is grateful for the near-amicable silence inhabiting the space between them. He knows if he looks at Morty now, he might just lash out and hit him, and after everything Morty’s been through he doesn’t need that.

_(Didn’t you want to beat him a second ago?)_

“I th— _ehhhrrrp—_ think I owe you some ice cream, Morty,” Rick says gruffly.

“Yeah,” Morty replies, authentic-sounding enthusiasm laces his tone and Rick swallows back the bile creeping up his throat, “y-yeah that sounds—sounds like a good idea, Rick!”

Rick nods tersely and steers the ship back down into earth’s atmosphere. Morty’s radiating something that isn’t quite happiness but it’s close enough to leave Rick with an undeserved feeling of warmth and relaxation, which he despises as much as he craves.

 _Don’t forgive me, Morty._ Rick thinks desperately as he continues staring straight ahead. His vision blurs as the concoction that was in his flask slowly takes effect. When they get low enough for traffic to be a problem, he’ll make Morty take the wheel.

_Never forgive me._


	6. A Woman And Two Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place about a month after the events in Chapter 5.

**Jerry**

 

“You don't have to chase around after creatures, Pismire had said. You watch them for long enough, and then you'll find the place to wait and they'll come to you. There's nearly always a better way of doing something.” 

  
― Terry Pratchett, _The Carpet People_

* * *

 

Contrary to popular opinion, Jerry isn’t an idiot.

Of course he isn’t as smart or as strong as his wife—very few people are—and, naturally, he isn’t as smart as his sociopathic father-in-law. But Jerry is not a complete fool.

A complete fool would think that his seventeen-year-old son genuinely wanted to play catch in the park on a warm Friday afternoon. A complete fool wouldn’t—quite rightly—suspect that it was really a gesture of pity after the end of a turbulent relationship with the boy’s mother.

There was a chance it wasn’t even Morty’s idea, Beth or even Summer may have put him up to it. But Jerry decided he didn’t really care in the end. Even if it is just for this afternoon, even if it is an illusion, Jerry’s man enough to admit he can’t resist the lure of pretending to be a father again.

“Go long!” Jerry yells. And Morty runs as fast as his legs can carry him. He’s quicker than Jerry would have anticipated. He supposes Morty’s gotten faster thanks to all his time running and dodging and doing go-knows-what with Rick on their wild adventures.

(It isn’t something Jerry likes to think about.)

He throws the football and, to Jerry’s surprise, Morty—who was never particularly blessed with athletic prowess—catches it with the grace and ease of someone Jerry does not recognize. Morty throws it back hard and fast and Jerry is almost unable to catch it.

Jerry smiles with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

When did Morty get so strong?

The setting sun is suddenly blotted out as a foreboding shadow stretches across the grass. Jerry looks up and sees Rick’s ship—the vehicle that was once his car—descend into the park like an ominous dark bird. The multiple engines cut out with a huff, the door swings open, and Rick steps out, long limbs unfolding like the legs of a pale spider. He casually brushes some dust off his lab coat and regards Jerry with a jaded glance.

Jerry fails to conceal a shudder.

Rick looks at him the way an eight-year-old looks at an ant-hill: as though he’s only _just_ grown out of tormenting the creatures for fun, but if he needs to vent his frustration on a particularly trying day then that ant-hill is just _begging_ to be fucked with.

“H-Hi Rick,” Jerry says with a very dry mouth.

Rick’s expression doesn’t change.

“Jerry.”

He is all-too familiar with their last encounter. Worrying about his son in hospital when just a few hours earlier, Rick nearly put Jerry in the ground. His wife and daughter both blamed him for Morty’s brush with death, but Jerry knows better even if he’s too cowardly to make the accusation out loud.

It is the long-established knowledge of civilizations, galaxies, and the multiverse: Rick Sanchez is dangerous.

“So… I see you’ve… _ahem,_ ” Jerry coughs awkwardly, “got yourself a new lab coat.”

 Rick turns away haughtily and Jerry looks up to see Morty running to him. In a pathetic display of naiveté, Jerry nearly allows himself to believe that his son is going to run right past Rick and continue the football game with him, but he doesn’t. Who is Jerry kidding? Competing with Rick on anything is an instant loss. He is cleverer, stronger, more resourceful, and more _loved_ than Jerry could ever hope to be.

And that hurts more than anything in the universe.

It hurts because Rick doesn’t care. Rick could never love anyone as much as Jerry loves his family.

Morty is exchanging words with Rick but Jerry is slightly too far away to hear. He approaches nervously, listening carefully to the pair. He notices Morty’s eyebrows are knitted in frustration, his lips pursed in annoyance. Rick’s spine is straight and poised.

It doesn’t take a genius to know they’re arguing.

 _“Because_ today I wanted to spend time with my _Dad!”_ Morty says crossly.

“Y-you don’t nee- _ehhrp_ -need a Dad, _Morty!”_ Rick replies angrily. “You just need a father- _figure_. Jeez! I-I-I thought we had this talk…”

 _“Rick!”_ Morty huffs. “I _have_ a father figure. No one else is my Dad.”

“Is…is something going on?” Jerry asks nervously. He then adds hastily, “can I help?”

“No!” Rick and Morty chorus together. Rick looking irritated and Morty looking exasperated.  

“Rick just dropped over to—”

“—To pick up Morty because Beth wanted to take the _family_ out to dinner tonight,” Rick explains tersely.

“I…see…” Jerry’s gaze flicks worriedly between Rick and Morty. Morty looks as though this is the first he has heard of this and Rick looks like he wants to get Morty as far away from Jerry as possible.

“Rick, c’mon… c’mon man, wh-why are you really doing this?” Morty asks tiredly.

“Look, Morty— _pehhhrrrrrp_ -p-patriarchs aside, I need you tonight and your Mom wants to spend time with a- _ohhhp-_ all of us together as a—a— _family_ or some bullshit—”

“—Even though,” Jerry says slowly, _“I’m_ clearly not invited.”

“Well,” Rick says coldly, “I _was_ attempting to be delicate about it, _Jerry,_ but, y-y’know, if the shoe fits.”

 _“Rick!”_ Morty hisses.

“No I get it,” Jerry shrugs in a false gesture of nonchalance. It stings but there’s no use in fighting. “If Beth doesn’t want me there, who am I to argue, right?”

(Competing with Rick on anything is an instant loss.)

“I…” Jerry sighs, “…guess, I’ll see ya round, Morty.”

Jerry turns his back on the pair and begins to make his way back to his car. The sun’s going down and he should probably start defrosting his dinner anyway. After all, he’s got to be up early tomorrow for a job interview…

“Dad!”

The grassy footsteps increase in volume as they approach. Jerry turns, surprised, to see Morty sprinting to his side and realizes with a feeling of wistful surprise that Morty seems to have grown up overnight. His gaze is sharper than it was, his face more angular. One minute Morty’s his boy, doing a science project together and humouring him with a spontaneous trip to Pluto. And the next he’s sprinting after a football at a speed no permanent resident of Earth could possibly manage.

(Jerry supresses a shudder.)

Morty grins at him. “Listen, Dad? It… i-it’d be great to do this again sometime.”

Jerry smiles appreciatively. “I’d like that.”

“So—so h-how about, um, you flick me a text when—wh-when you’re—y’know—free next? And… and then y-you can return the football to me,” Morty anxiously holds out the football to Jerry as though handing someone a swaddled infant.

And Jerry, a man who isn’t an idiot—at least not where it matters—gets the message immediately and takes the football from Morty.

“Sure, sounds like a plan, kiddo,” he ruffles Morty’s hair, which is odd given that Morty’s so much older now, but Morty doesn’t protest and even ducks his head slightly so he can smile childishly up at his father. He shoots Jerry a respectful smile and Jerry smiles back with appreciation.

They play their parts well, even if they’re roles they haven’t played in a very long time.

Jerry looks past Morty to see Rick is leaning against the space ship with his arms folded and his gaze averted, his lips pursed together while his eyes stare firmly up into the heavens. A part of Jerry swells at that. Good to know the man’s got enough humanity in him to feel something akin to envy.

After all, Morty’s right: no one else is his Dad.

 

* * *

 

“Ho-kay…” Jerry exhales. “I’ll just sit here and watch. It’s not weird, it’s not stalking, I’m just… keeping an eye on my family! Yeah. That’s all this is. I’m just keeping an eye on them.”

He pulls out a pair of binoculars from the shotgun seat and leans his elbows on the steering wheel.

“Not stalking, not _technically_ stalking…” he keeps whispering to himself. “Just keeping an eye on things.”

Beth’s car enters the Shony’s parking lot and after backing into a space, the doors all open and Beth and the rest of the family step out.

Beth’s wearing a seldom-worn lemon-coloured dress, which she knows Jerry doesn’t really care for. Jerry guesses that not having him around was probably very liberating. Without a pathetic little barnacle constantly stuck to her, Beth is free to be unapologetically herself.

Summer follows. She’s on her phone as usual. She’s wearing a very short pink dress and very high black heels, which Jerry doesn’t approve of. Yes, she’s twenty now, but that is still his little girl in that get-up.

He guesses Summer is unapologetically herself now too and he looks disapprovingly at Beth.

Rick and Morty trail behind. Rick looks like he’s already drunk—not that that's surprising—and Morty is stealing frequent nervous glances at him. As Beth and Summer turn towards the restaurant doors, Rick places a hand on the back of Morty’s neck in a manner that makes Jerry immediately sit up and take notice.

It’s not familial or fatherly, but it isn’t friendly either. There’s something uncomfortably possessive about the touch and the way Morty tenses tells Jerry that he’s noticed it too. Jerry’s eyes narrow as he watches Rick’s hold loosen and then trail carefully and deliberately down Morty’s spine.

Morty stiffens and shoots Rick a look and Rick stares back at him. They only hover like that for a moment but with the amount of static in the air between them, it may as well have been hours. The pair look as though they are engaging in a telepathic war, which, given the craziness of their lives may not be too far from the truth.

Morty suddenly breaks eye-contact to dash over and grab the restaurant door before it closes. They step inside. Morty first, then Rick.

Jerry turns on the engine and moves his car around to the other side of the restaurant, he hopes the family have been seated in a window booth and—as luck would have it—they have.

Morty and Rick are sitting side by side and Jerry observes carefully as Morty sits stiffly across from his mother. Beth is sharing some anecdote with the family and receiving bored looks for her trouble.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs to get better stories,” Jerry whispers with a smirk.

The smirk vanishes as quickly as it came and Jerry sighs, turning away from his binoculars.

Who’s he kidding?

He’d give _anything_ to be listening to whatever Tale From The Horse Hospital his wife is currently sharing. He’d give anything to just be _near_ her. He tired of the nightclubs he’s too old for, the strip clubs he’s too poor for, and even that interesting intergalactic dating site Rick suggested… no matter what, his heart keeps dragging him back to Beth.

Beth finishes her anecdote with a line that is probably supposed to make them all laugh but in response just leaves Rick looking unimpressed and Morty confused. Summer is still on her phone, ignoring them all. Beth deflates a little and Jerry looks away from the binoculars for a moment.

“I’d have laughed,” he mutters to no one.

It’s true.

He always did.

Even when Beth’s jokes weren’t that funny, even when she said things that bordered on ghoulish rather than a little politically incorrect, he still laughed. He couldn’t help it. Her face always lit up when he did.

Who is he without her?

Blinking away a tear, Jerry turns his attention back to the binoculars and sees that Rick’s talking. He takes Beth’s hand from across the table and smiles at her reassuringly and Beth looks close to tears, a smile broadening across her face.

_You took my family from me you bastard!_

Morty says something then, a broad grin on his face, and Beth’s face lights up with joy. Morty then rises from the table and leaves the family for the men’s room. Beth and Rick continue talking while Summer ignores them both, her attention glued to her phone.

When Morty isn’t back for a while, Rick rises from his seat. He makes a gesture towards the men’s room and the two girls nod. Jerry watches as Rick departs.

He’s gone for five minutes.

Then ten.

Their food arrives and Rick and Morty aren’t back in their seats.

Twenty-five minutes.

Something feels off.

It’s been too long.

Jerry shifts uneasily in his seat.

Summer and Beth have almost finished their meals by the time the pair re-enter the dining area.

Jerry’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

Morty doesn’t look so good. He’s trembling and seems to be deliberately making himself look as small as possible. His eyes keep darting about wildly like he’s expecting something to jump out at him. He looks a bit dishevelled too. His hair is now messy with parts of it forced flat with damp sweat, his shirt is wrinkled and no longer tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Rick, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine.

As the pair slowly make their way back to the table, Morty suddenly goes still and Rick turns back to look at him.

 _What did you do?_ Jerry thinks.  

Rick stalks back to Morty and places a nervous hand on the boy’s shoulder. Morty flinches and Rick immediately withdraws. Jerry grits his teeth.

Rick’s back is to Jerry now. Beth and Summer haven’t noticed a thing. Morty looks close to tears and even with his height, seems much younger than his seventeen years. He isn’t sure if Rick’s speaking but when Rick turns back around, Morty follows meekly behind.

They sit back down and Rick immediately digs into his meal without a care. With his mouth full, and with plenty of over-the-top hand-gestures, he regales Beth and Summer with a fantastical sci-fi adventure story which has them both enthralled. Beth’s chin is perched on her knuckles as she gazes adoringly up at him while Summer laughs obediently at all the obviously funny parts and gasps predictably at all the scary bits.

He can’t see Morty from here, but he assumes the boy’s behaving the same way.

It’s all quite uninteresting now. Just a normal boring family eating dinner at Shony’s.

Jerry wants to ask himself why he came here in the first place but then Jerry’s heart stops.

Both of Rick’s hands are clearly visible on the table in front of him.

So how is there a hand currently on Rick’s thigh?

 _Something_ happened in the men’s room. Something that clearly scared Morty shitless. They must have portaled-out somewhere. It’s the only explanation.

Jerry’s lip curls and he watches Rick’s face. His expression isn’t giving him away at all. He simply smiles and nods and behaves as normal as one would expect. Morty’s hand creeps higher, giving Rick’s thigh a quick squeeze, but Rick’s expression remains unchanged. It’s nearing Rick’s crotch until Rick shifts in his seat and curls his own white fingers around Morty’s lightly tanned ones. He gives the hand a squeeze and then lets it go. Morty’s hand retreats.

 _Yes._ Jerry thinks triumphantly. _Yes, yes, this is perfect!_

If Rick’s abusing Morty then Beth won’t have a choice but to get rid of the man!

Jerry throws the car in Drive and speeds out of there as fast as he can. It’s only a matter of time before Rick slips up, and of course Jerry can easily help things along a little… but the point is, it’s over. Rick isn’t going to last.

He can’t.

Beth would never allow him to have such obvious disregard for their son’s welfare.

Of that, Jerry is certain.

 

**Beth**

 

“Enlightenment does not occur during the deed itself, it occurs once illusion is destroyed, and one gains insight into the underlying meaning.”

—Clarissa Pinkola Estes, _Women Who Run With The Wolves_

 

* * *

 

Ever since Morty descended the stairs that morning sporting the world’s worst black eye, Beth has suspected something seriously dodgy has been going on. Of course, expecting anything in their family to be halfway normal is naïve at best, but seeing the way Morty flinched away at even the most innocent of questions has left a bad taste in her mouth and a twisted feeling in her gut that she still can’t quite shake.

Now that Rick and Morty are back living under the same roof, she feels different. Not quite _better_ but the constant unshakable clench of her abdominal muscles has subsided at least a little. She won’t deny it, the wine helps. But mostly, Beth is just relieved to finally be a family again. 

 

Rick absconds with Morty—sometimes for weeks at a time, but that’s okay, that’s just the Smith’s special brand of normal. In the meantime, Beth takes Summer out shopping. They bond over boy-trouble, chick-flicks, ABC’s The Bachelor and fad diets while Rick and Morty disappear to Quantabulon 6 to collect Zaphyr Crystals and mix weird futuristic-sounding pop songs with the singing nuns of Grandususmooch and run with nine-legged aliens, engage in fierce battles, and explore the multiverse in all its magesty. Rick can have Morty, Beth will have Summer. And everything will be right with the universe.

This is Beth’s life. The life she _chose_.

She’s a whole new person now.

 _This works,_ she tells herself.  _I'm a single mother of two wonderful kids, a highly successful _equine_ surgeon, and I live with my genius scientist of a father._

Her role in the universe is determined and Beth is finally happy. 

Beth smiles proudly to herself and sips her wine, kicking her feet up on the couch while Rick and Morty enter the kitchen behind her.

“Shut up, Rick!” Morty’s grinning. Beth smiles fondly as her son helps himself to a glass of water from the fridge dispenser while Rick watches him smugly. She gets up to join them.

“No really, Morty, I’m telling you— _eehhhrp_ - _entire_ planet full of redheads who will drop their panties for anything bipedal. It’s— _breerrrrp_ —amazing, Morty! Y-You’ll love it!”

“Stop! Jeez, Rick, you know my—m-my Mom’s like right here!”

Beth shrugs. “Knock yourself out, Morty. Just use protection.”

Rick smirks. Triumphant. "See?"

“Mom! Gross…”

“Oh—oh seriously, Morty? Seriously? Y-You think _that’s_ gross?” Rick leers knowingly at Morty, folding his arms smugly while he leans against the bench.

Discomfort reddens Morty's cheeks and Beth laughs.

As pair continue their playful banter, Beth excuses herself in order hang out upstairs with her magazine and a newly poured glass of red. She's going to get an early night tonight. Tomorrow's her day off but she plans to take Summer to the mall tomorrow so they can pick out her midwinter ball dress together. 

As she approaches the stairs, she steals a glance down at her phone and notices two missed calls and a text message: all from Jerry.

 _Great._ She thinks, irritated. _The guy can’t take a hint can he?_

A _divorce_ is more than a hint, of course, but Beth couldn’t care less. It’s been too long since she could relax and rid her mind of her idiotic soon-to-be- _ex_ -husband. She deletes the two voicemails without listening to them and reads the text message.

 

**Beth we need to talk bout Rick and Morty. It is urgent. Pls call me.**

 

“Whatcha doing?” Rick asks casually, noticing that Beth is frozen in the middle of the hallway.

“Oh just… got another text message from Jerry…” Beth laughs drily. “He—uhh—doesn’t seem to be getting what _divorce_ means.”

“Is he bothering you, sweetie?” Rick asks.

“Oh no, _no_ , Dad, I just… I should really just delete his number,” Beth laughs again.

“Yeah, yeah, y-you probably should. Hey, so... so me and Morty we’re—uh—w-we’re gonna head out again. We’ve got—um—stuff to... _ahem…_ ”

 _“Dad,”_ Beth says with mock-exasperation. “I already know.”

“You...  _Y-You_ _do?!”_

“Yes! Planet full of redheads, heard you in the kitchen remember?” Beth rolls her eyes playfully.

“Oh! Oh yeah, sweetie, toh-totally.”

“I’ll leave you both to your...  _adventure,”_ Beth winks as she begins to make her way upstairs.

She hears Rick depart with Morty through one of his signature watery-green portals and she makes her way into the study.

 

It’s a bad idea.

She should delete Jerry’s number.

No contact would ultimately be the healthy thing.

Beth’s hit the Call button before she can properly give herself permission. Her thumb just seems to have moved on its own.

Oh well. That’s okay. It’ll probably go to voicemail and then…

“Hello? Beth?”

“Jerry! Oh. Uh…”

“Beth! Hi! I’m— _uhum…_ ” Jerry coughs nervously. “L-Look, I... I’m _really_ glad you called, Beth, I can’t tell you how much it means to hear from you.”

Beth scowls.

“Save it, _Jerry,_ I just called to tell you not to call this number again or else I’m blocking you.”

“No, wait! Beth, it’s because… because there’s something—” Jerry’s voice dips an octave lower and Beth frowns at the sudden seriousness to his tone, “—there’s something I really need to discuss with you…”

When Jerry’s said what he has to say, Beth is speechless.

The temperature suddenly drops, Beth feels small and the room feels far to large.

And then Beth's skin flushes with sudden heat. Her vision blurs.

She’s livid. _Beyond_ livid. She could strangle Jerry. How could she ever love someone so sleazy? So self-centred?

And her father thought _she_ was the sociopath.

“This.” Beth whispers. “Jerry Smith. Is the _lowest_ , most _devious_ , most _disgusting_ thing I have _ever…_ ” now that the flood-gates are open, Beth can’t stop. She tears into Jerry and—to Jerry’s credit—he takes it. She can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, listening to every insult she can conjure up.

Nearly hoarse, Beth finally hisses “How… how _dare_ you!”

Jerry takes a deep breath. He sounds a lot calmer than he would have a year or two ago.

“Beth,” comes his measured voice, “you have defended your father through a _lot._ So I’m not surprised you’re defending him this time. But if you see anything at all which worries you, anything at _all_ that seems remotely suspicious, you can call me and we’ll deal with it together. Remember: he’s my son too. I love you, Beth.”

With that, Jerry has the audacity to hang up.

Furious, Beth throws her phone across the room and hurries back downstairs. Wine’s not going to do it after that. She’s going to need scotch.

She wishes she never met Jerry Smith.

 

* * *

 

It has been evening all afternoon, long shadows stretch gnarled black fingers across the dimly lit hallway and Beth staggers among them. She has sipped wine, swallowed mouthfuls of whiskey, she would have fished out a bong if she could find one and get away with using it. She hasn’t been this drunk in a while. Not since the day the Galactic Government left earth.

Jerry can go die.

In the fading sunlight she finds herself staggering into the kitchen—…Zuh? When’d she make it downstairs?—and face-to-face with her father who is looking rather flushed.

“Oh h-hey, sweetie,” he smiles at her. “Thought maybe we’d order in for dinner tonight. Does thought sound all—alright?”

“Huh? What?” Beth puts her hand against her forehead. “We’re…? We’re what?”

“Ordering in, Beth.” Rick repeats. “For dinner.”

“Oh right, right, yeah sure!” Beth slurs. “Whatever you guys like, s’fine. I’ll go get my purse and—”

“Uh, no offense Mom,” Summer’s bored drawl can be heard from the kitchen doorway, “but you are _way_ too shit-faced to drive.”

“Fiiiine,” Beth slurs.

“You order something, Sum-Sum, I’ll g-get your mother up to bed,” Rick says with an amused tone.

Beth smiles gratefully at her father as he ushers her upstairs, one hand on her forearm and the other around her shoulders. It’s just like when she was a little girl, those wonderful rare times when she reached out to her father and he deigned to reach back.

Beth leans against him as he gently guides her to her room. The arm around her shoulders holds strong and he shoots her a fond smile.

 He even tucks her in like he did when she was tiny.

“Thanks Dad,” she sighs. “I’m sorry to leave you with the kids this evening.”

“Oh, i-it’s-it’s-it’s not a problem, Beth, I mean… S-Summer’s twenty and Morty’s seventeen so I wouldn’t—wouldn’t really call them _kids_ anymore anyway, y’know?”

“I know,” Beth replies, “but... to me they’ll always be my babies. Kn-know what I mean?”

Rick looks odd for a half-second. Something that could almost be guilt—but not quite… maybe guilt’s shadow or a distant cousin to the emotion—flashes across Rick’s face and then disappears in an instant.

“Yeah,” Rick says softly, his eyes warm. “I…”

But then Rick shakes his head as though shaking himself out of a dream. He blinks and looks down at her with a more recognizably stern expression.

“Sl-Sleep well, sweetie,” Rick smiles.

And with that, Rick turns on his heel and departs the bedroom in a hurry. Maybe it’s just because she’s inebriated, but Beth feels deliriously happy. She lies back with a goofy smile on her face and basks in the kindness her father bestowed upon her. After all, she may not know Rick all that well, but she’s pretty sure he just—in his own unique way—called her his baby.

And if she’s honest, that’s all Beth has ever wanted. All she’s ever craved. To be wanted by a man as wonderful as her father. To be treasured, loved, appreciated. To be a daughter.

To matter.

The world is a much warmer place these days.

 

* * *

 

The luminous green numbers on the alarm clock read 1.05 and Beth groans. Her head feels heavy and drool coats her cheek. How long ago did she pass out?

Groggy, confused, and slightly sick, it feels as though someone has strapped a pair of concrete blocks to her feet. Beth staggers out of bed and starts clumsily making her way downstairs to the kitchen.  She needs a glass of water and an aspirin if she’s going to get through the night without losing her dinner.

Wait, did she even have dinner? That’s right, Rick was ordering something for her and the kids and she turned in early…

The lights are off, but the kitchen is illuminated with a silvery-blueish glow which Beth recognizes as the television. Beth pours herself a glass of water, the living room appears to be empty from her view in the kitchen doorway. She shrugs, her father and the kids were probably watching interdimensional commercials and then ducked out for a quick adventure or maybe a bite to eat. Oh well. At least it isn’t a school night.

She has a quick glance around the room for the remote and when it isn’t immediately visible, she steps around the couch, first searching amongst the cushions on Jerry’s chair. When it isn’t there, Beth turns her attention to the couch.

Beth is frozen on the spot. Her bones have suddenly chilled and her stomach swoops before dropping into her slippers.

Rick—her _father_ —is lying on his back, mouth wide open mid-snore, while one arm dangles over the side of the couch. His hip flask is upended on the floor and creating a sticky puddle on the carpet. He’s out cold and shirtless with his belt undone for comfort. But the thing which has rendered Beth petrified with shock is Morty.

Morty lies on his side between Rick’s widely spread legs, his head rested heavily against Rick’s crotch. Rick’s other hand—the one not an inch from his signature flask—is rested lazily on the back of Morty’s head, long fingers entwined in her son’s dark curls. Morty’s fully clothed, thank goodness, but Beth must admit to herself it is the _least_ platonic positioning she’s ever seen. The more she stands and stares, the more horrified she becomes, yet she cannot bring herself to leave.

Jerry’s words echo in her head.

 _“I know I shouldn’t have been there, Beth, and I know we talked about that kind of thing after my rant on Facebook but_ — _Beth_ — _Morty had his hand on Rick’s leg. You yourself have to admit, they were in the bathroom for a_ very _long time. I just think_ — _"_

Beth’s mouth is dry. She sways where she stands. Before she can do anything else, before her mind will make her _think_ anything else, Beth flees. She races up the stairs—taking two at a time—as fast as her tired drunk legs will carry her. She doesn't care how loud she's being, doesn't care that some of her wine has slopped out of the glass and spilled onto the carpet. She needs to get away, needs to think, needs another drink or ten… needs… needs…

But by the time she’s in her bedroom she’s already talked herself down.

It was probably an accident. They both nodded off on the couch and Morty just kind of _slumped_ into that position. That’s all. It’s not a big deal. Actually, it’s sort of funny in a way. Sort of cute. Beth should have snapped a photo…

She was only alarmed because she’s drunk and because Jerry put the idea in her head earlier that day. Stupid Jerry. It was all his fault. If it hadn’t been for the phone call it would have never occurred to her that something was wrong.

Yes, that’s it, Beth’s sure of it.

Beth tucks herself back into bed. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s…

…

 

* * *

 

 

Clutching her favourite fluffy pink dressing gown tightly around herself, Beth staggers into the kitchen. Her head is pulsing with a relentless hangover that just won't give up even with a sweet tea with codeine. She's taken another sick-day, which the horse-hospital will have let slide thanks to her stellar reputation, but their patience is finite and the family's finances will suffer if Beth lets this continue.

She sips her tea and makes a face. It's cold. Why did she bother getting out of bed?

_(Because you're happy, remember?)_

_Because I'm taking Summer to the mall today..._

It’s been a rough month workwise. Two prize-winning race horses have had to be put-down and their owners aren’t at all happy. Beth drinks to numb the feelings of vague annoyance that plague her.  
  
She’s a _good surgeon_ , dammit! Why is everything going so horribly wrong right now? She can’t concentrate, can’t enjoy the things she used to enjoy, can’t stand the sight of herself in the mirror…

 _(Do_ _you still honestly think that's really Beth Smith looking back at you?)_

_Shut up!_

Summer has noticed the shift in Beth's behaviour. Of course. But she doesn’t comment or voice any form of concern. Summer is, for better or worse, Beth's daughter. And that makes her just as irresponsible and self-centred as Beth herself.   
  
_My god,_ Beth realizes, _I really am my father._  
  
Tipping her cold tea into the sink, Beth stirs some Irish into an instant coffee and stares wistfully outside at the old tyre swing her ex husband made for Summer when she was little. The thing is hideous and the ropes holding it up are frayed with age. It was frequently filled with dirty rainwater and Summer would get so filthy playing with it. Beth would rant for hours at Jerry for messing up her daughters nice dresses 

Next to the swing are two patches of packed-up earth that almost resemble graves.

Was Jerry sowing a vegetable garden before he left?

“Hey, sweetie, w-watcha… watcha doing?” Rick asks casually as he removes a snack from the top shelf of the cupboard.

“Hey Dad,” Beth shrugs. “Nothing, I guess… just… it’s been a difficult few months y’know?”

“Yeah…” Rick surprises Beth by agreeing, “it’s certainly been a hell of a ride.” He looks wistfully out the window for a moment and Beth wonders if her father is also looking out at the tyre swing. It would be a rather odd thing for him to be staring at, after all, he didn’t know Summer as a child.

He barely knew _her_ as a child.

“Dad?”

“Mm?”  
  
“Morty…” Beth begins, deciding that—okay— _maybe_ a little investigation is necessary. Just enough to cure the tight knot that is beginning to once again coagulate in her gut.

“What about him?” Rick says gruffly, turning back to the cupboard and fishing out a box of brightly coloured cereal.

“Well,” Beth muses, “it’s just… he’s sort of been acting a little strangely ever since he got out of hospital. Sort of… _cagey_ , I suppose.” Beth smiles. “And he seems to have completely lost interest in his little friend Jessica, have you noticed that? And it’s a pity too, right when he was coming into his looks…”

Rick looks blank. “Wh-where’re you going with this, sweetie?”

“Do you—since you spend the most time with him these days—do you think Morty might be gay?”

“Do I…? Wh-why would you ask me something like that?” Rick asks suddenly, “It— _ehrrp_ —it’s not—not exactly a detail I’m personally invested in, Beth. And I mean, c’mon, you probably shouldn’t be invested in it either.”

“I know, I know, it’s just—oh have you seen anything? Heard anything? If he’s going through something, I want to know about it!” Beth looks worriedly up at her father’s disinterested face. “I’ve been so far away from him for so long and—and I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Beth isn’t sure where the tears are coming from, she’s not even sure if they’re genuine or just her own manipulative talents taking over, but she lets them flow and her father hastily puts the cereal box back in the cupboard in order to place a tender hand on her shoulder. “Oh Dad! He was hurt a-and he was in trouble and I just—I just _sat_ here and let it all happen. I—a-am I a bad parent? Am I bad _person?”_

“Beth, th-the universe isn’t divided up into good people and bad l-like that. It’s tempting to believe it is, believe me, and I know it would certainly make a lot of things _easier_. But it’s not. The multiverse just has bigger and more important things to worry about than the simple notions of good or bad from a handful of lifeforms and in the—in the end all us parents just have to do the best—the best job we know how to do with the resources we have and—a-and God knows _I_ didn’t set the best example there. So given _eehhhh_ verything, I-I-I’d say you’re doing pretty okay. And in your c-case, okay is enough.”

Beth sniffles and nods.

“And… _uh!”_ Rick huffs out a sigh. “I-If we have to have this talk, n-no, Morty’s not interested in J-Jessica anymore.”

“Is he—?”

But Rick cuts her off.

“I-I-I don’t wanna go there, Beth. I-It’s up for debate. L-Let Tumblr deal w-with it or… something.” Rick quickly stalks out of the room, murmuring a quiet “yeesh!” under his breath.

Beth frowns.

_‘Up for debate’?_

She has no clue what Tumblr is but she knows her father now. After all, they both have the same problem: they know everything. They know the other one knows everything. Which means ignorance is a lie.

Rick is hiding something.

* * *

 

 

Rick’s out with Morty again. Summer’s “studying” somewhere across town.

Now is as good a time as any. She heads into the garage with a nifty feather duster at the ready—a nice little excuse should she be caught—and begins recklessly yanking open various drawers and cupboards in a hunt for clues. She isn’t really sure what she is specifically searching for, but she knows she’ll know when she’s found it. Something’s up with Morty and as a mother—yes, that is her number one job now—she must get to the bottom of it.

When the garage proves fruitless, Beth moves on to her father’s bedroom.

It’s oddly cold and when she begins rummaging she feels guilty. It seems unfair that a man of such genius should live in such a way. He may have been a crummy father but he was still her Dad and he was trying so hard now, with Morty, to be the parent he couldn’t be when Beth was younger.

Beth feels a sharp stab of envy and quickly stuffs the feeling into the back. Fancy being jealous of her own son!

She really is weak.

Rick’s room isn’t as interesting as the garage. There’s a funny looking helmet under the bed, some small objects which remind Beth of jacks, and a pair of _oven mitts_ for some reason…

And then, just as Beth is about to leave, her foot hits a floorboard in just the wrong kind of way and she hears the unmistakable sound of a hollow echo reverberating around metal walls.

 _Dammit, Dad!_ Beth thinks angrily. _We said no more hatches!_

But that was a rule she and Jerry had made, wasn’t it? Did a rule like that really count now that he was out of the picture?

Beth feels her way around the floorboard and lifts.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Another secret chamber, a portal to the blender dimension, a secret laboratory…

But what she definitely wasn’t expecting was a small, simple, metal box. It’s the most unassuming thing, yet Beth is fascinated by it. Her heart races as she lifts it out from amongst the floorboads. Of all the things in her father’s possession, this is the only one she has ever seen actually locked away.

The lock breaks easily when Beth brings it into the kitchen and jimmies it with a butter knife. She’s excited now and no longer cares about the consequences. She wants to be a part of her father’s world, has needed that for so long. If she can’t talk her way in, can’t bargain, can’t charm… she’s going to _break_ her way in.

Beth opens the box.

She frowns.

The contents are bizarre and slightly disappointing: old razorblades, empty liquor bottles, a container of sleeping pills—this seems more like the collection of a particularly unhappy teenager. There’s a cassette tape from a band called The Flesh Curtains and what appears to be a strangely-shaped broken lightbulb with little red specks all over it.

And then Beth’s heart begins hammering wildly in her chest. A smile broadens across her face.

Pictures of _her._ Her first pony ride, her first day of school, a unicorn box that she once asked her father to make her—she didn’t remember if he actually made it, she guesses he must have and just forgot about it—and plans for the first prototype of Floopyland.

 _“Dad…”_ Beth murmurs, her trembling fingers pawing over each treasure and joyful tears drip down her cheeks. “You kept it _all…”_

Beth’s first physics award, her black belt in Tie Kwon Do, her spelling bee award, photos from her early drama productions… she didn’t realize Rick even knew about those things! Her mother had always been the one to attend her extracurricular activities…

Beth frowns. The next photo is of Morty as a baby. So is the next, and the next, and the next… why does her father hold a collection of Morty’s baby pictures? And where on earth did he _get_ them?

And there’s a photo of Morty at the school dance, blushing furiously while hand-in-hand with Jessica.

The photo is folded in half.

 _It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s folded in half for storage. It’s nothing…it’s_ —

Beth’s blood chills.

Morty’s old yellow T-shirt and a pair of his pants and— Beth’s heart breaks—a pair of her baby’s underwear.

None of the clothing items are clean. The T-shirt and pants look like they’re covered in vomit as well as blood. That isn’t too surprising in and of itself. After all, Beth knows that some of their adventures can be pretty rough.

But when Beth inspects the underwear—almost unable to touch it but forcing herself for curiosity’s sake—as she holds the pair of boxers up to the light she can see an unmistakeable semen stain on the _outside_ of the fabric.

It’s all so horrifically obvious now.

The bruises, the tiredness, the black-eye, the way Rick was so cagey about Morty’s sexuality…

 

The fact Morty has looked so sick and thin for so long.

 

  
Her father is abusing her son.

Something ghoulish and sinister creeps irreverently into Beth’s mind.

 _(What if…)_ A nasty part of her suggests. _(You just… let him have him?)_

Beth looks determinedly outside at Summer’s old tyre swing and squares her jaw.

"Unacceptable," she whispers.


	7. What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?

“What hath night to do with sleep?”

—John Milton, Paradise Lost

 

* * *

 

 

Rick’s eyes are dry with exhaustion. His body is drained of energy and his bones scrape against one another.

But sleep won’t come.

 

It has been a month and Rick knows his boy is being tormented every night. He hears him: whimpering and crying in his sleep, begging to be left alone, pleading for some unseen monster to stop hurting him. Rick wonders what the monster looks like: King Jellybean? Something with tentacles? A Gromflamite general with a gun pointed at him? Supernova? Mike?

 _No…_ Rick thinks miserably.

Rick doesn’t need to search deep down to know the monster that torments Morty wears his face.

He would describe the sound of the boy’s sobs as torture but after the things Rick did to him, it feels disrespectful to think of it that way. Nevertheless, for reasons Rick won’t acknowledge, he forces himself to listen to Morty's screams every night.

If the sound of Morty’s crying was bad, the nights where the boy is silent are even worse.

It is a particularly strange night. Unseasonably warm, no wind, and eerily quiet. Beth is in the study. She’ll be pulling an all-nighter in order to prepare for a seminar she is delivering at the Sewell-Faust Veterinary Institute. Summer is at a 'study group' that no doubt involves a bong. The lamp in the study is the only human-made light source in the whole house, every other room is bathed in the dim luminescence of the almost full moon.

Rick decided to get drunk on some of Beth’s wine supply tonight and, predictably, he needs the bathroom at two in the morning.

This is why he never buys wine—he can only afford to rent it.

He crosses the landing to find Morty’s bedroom door open ajar.

For some reason, the ominous crack between the wall and the door holds Rick’s attention hostage. Rick keeps eyeballing it like it is something obscene. For the first time in weeks, Morty’s bedroom is mysteriously and worryingly quiet. And that is why, once Rick’s finished in the bathroom, he decides to give into his curiosity and peek inside the boy’s bedroom.

He had  ~~hoped~~ assumed that Morty would be sleeping soundly. Certainly, Rick did not expect to find Morty sitting rigidly on the edge of his bed, staring pale-faced and narrow-eyed into nowhere.

“Morty?” Rick frowns, edging further into the room.

Morty doesn’t move. His spine rod-straight in unnerving stillness, as though he is trying very _very_ hard not to be seen—ironic, given how much his weird behaviour is drawing Rick’s attention—and Rick is reminded, unsettlingly, of a lion ready to pounce.

Morty doesn't look defensive. He looks ready to  _attack._

“Morty?” Rick repeats. “H-hey… Wh-what are—h-how’re you doing, buddy?”

Still staring straight ahead as though in a trance, Morty’s lips part and he says in an emotionless whisper:

“I need to be ready.”

“For _what?”_

“If he comes, I… I gotta be ready.”

A glint of metal catches Rick’s eye and he and realizes with alarm that a knife wrapped in a tea-towel is lying cradled in Morty’s lap.

“Morty!” Rick says angrily, letting go of the door and striding properly into the room. “ _Jeezus,_ what the fuck are you—? Put—put that away before you hurt someone!”

“It’s not for anyone else, Rick,” Morty says, his voice so level and calm and so unlike himself that it chills Rick’s very marrow. “It’s for me.”

Rick squares his jaw and stands directly above Morty, looking down at the boy with cold contempt. “No. I don’t think so, Morty. Give me the knife.”

“No.”

“Morty...” Rick warns.

Morty’s disquieting behaviour suddenly ceases. His shoulders slump in relaxation, his spine hunches into a more natural position and his arms fall loosely at his sides. Morty blinks stupidly and looks around himself as though he isn’t quite sure where he is. Then Morty’s face contorts with realization as he notices Rick standing over him. He jerks back in alarm.

“R-R- _Rick?!”_ Morty's voice breaks as cries out. “Wh-where did you— _oh jeez_ —what’s… a-are we going on an adventure, Rick?” Morty suddenly jumps to his feet, sending the knife clattering to the floor and drawing a loud gasp from Morty. Rick stoops to pick it up and Morty stares at him in bewilderment. “Wh-what’s going on, Rick? Are you drunk again? What’s happening?”

Rick carefully places the knife and tea towel on the bedside table.

“Nothing Morty, it’s nothing. G-Go back to sleep.”

“But— _oh jeez_ , Rick...”

With a sigh, Rick positions his hands on Morty’s shoulders. He holds him for a moment, tenderly kneading Morty’s biceps, before gently guiding him back down onto the mattress.

“J-Just relax, Morty. Lie down.”

He’s reluctant at first, his expression still guarded, but Morty does as he’s told and Rick tucks him in. But Morty's still restless, his muscles feel tense with worry. “D-did something happen, Rick? Are you okay? Rick? S-say something. Tell me what’s-wh-what’s g-going—”

“Shh… you need to sleep, Morty.”

Morty’s forehead is still knitted in concern and his lips are pursed together, his eyes are wide—fearful.

“What if—if I stay here with you for a bit?” Rick suggests. "That—that sound okay, Morty?"

To his relief, Morty sighs and smiles with uttermost content and gratitude. Rick’s chest clenches.

 _“Thank you,_ Rick.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut the hell up,  _Morty_ , and go back to sleep.”

Eventually, Morty’s eyes droop closed while Rick stays on his knees watching over him. Morty’s breaths slow to a more steady and relaxed rhythm and soon sleep overtakes him. When Rick is finally satisfied Morty will stay asleep, Rick rises to his feet and begins to leave the room.

As Rick opens the bedroom door, a nervous voice rings out through the stillness.

 

“I… I love you, Rick.”

 

Rick pretends he didn’t hear. He shuts the door with a satisfying click.

 

* * *

 

Morty would never describe himself as “better,” mainly because he’s not entirely sure what “better” would look like. But he knows he isn’t as thin as we was a month ago, he has more energy, and—to Morty’s uttermost defeat—his appetite is slowly returning. _Some_ would deem those things to be improvements but to Morty they are obvious signs of failure.

 

He hasn’t slept in weeks: restless with anxiety due to the lack of control over his chaotic life. He may have gained a little weight, but not enough to be normal. His bones still chafe uncomfortably against the mattress and no matter his position, he can’t get comfortable. He’s too cold alone in bed and he misses the reassuring warmth alcohol used to provide for him.

 

...And Morty had almost forgotten about the nightmares.

 

Everything is okay and Morty’s no longer concerned about the adventure being a bit of a mess. Rick’s being an ass but that’s just par for the course isn’t it? The universe may be chaotic and unpredictable but that's just part of the fun. After all, a roller-coaster isn't thrilling if it only goes straight.

Hands massage his shoulders in a manner that Morty assumes is supposed to be soothing. But he doesn’t know this creature, doesn’t trust it, its kind smile and touch is bordering on sleazy and Morty stiffens in discomfort. His jaw clenches and he feels the floor get harder, the room grow smaller, the air around him swiftly becomes stuffy and thick. 

“Oh-okay. Uh…b-bye,” Morty stammers, pulling away from the creature.

“Oh no! Stay.” The creature drags Morty back to it, pressing its chest against Morty’s back and groping his torso, feeling over his stomach and edging its way down to his groin. “Go with the flow.”

The room is nothing but three-by-three dirty brown tiles, a sink, and Morty’s ugly face reflected in the fingerprint-smeared mirror. The tap drips loudly, hot breath and revolting-smelling spittle sprays Morty's cheek, the coppery taste of fear floods the back of Morty's mouth. His feet struggle to find purchase on the wet floor as the creature shoves him forward, forcing Morty to look at himself.

As his eyes meet those of his own gaunt hollow face, another face appears behind Morty and suddenly Mr. Jellybean is gone, he's morphed into someone tall and slender. A familiar low voice whispers in his ear:

“You like that you little slut? You like it when your grandpa starts groping you?”

Tears drip down Morty’s cheeks then as he looks up at the mirror, meeting the stern gaze of the man who is now holding him. He trusts this man. Trusts him with his life. Which only serves to make the softest of touches smart with pain. Morty's chest burns with betrayal.

Rick doesn’t sway with drunkenness this time, he doesn’t look angry or cruel like he did in the Operating Room. He just looks sad. 

“Yes,” Morty confesses quietly. He draws in a shuddering breath. “But it hurts, Rick.”

“I… I’m doing you a fucking _favour_ by being here, y-y- _brehhrp-_ y’know?” Rick reminds him and Morty nods.

“I know, Rick. I know you are." Morty looks away. "Are—are you going to fuck me?”

“No.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I’d fucking _break you.”_

Morty’s mind flashes past the various entities Rick has laid with: men, women, and several alien genders in between. Princesses and prostitutes. Heroes, heretics, and hive-minds. Entire orgies full of the most beautiful, dangerous, and terrifying creatures imaginable. Rick’s even slept with creatures whom one would barely consider sentient.

But not Morty.

Morty will never be strong enough.

“I’m sorry,” Morty sobs, his forehead falling against the cold glass. “I’m sorry I’m so breakable.”

Rick nuzzles behind Morty’s ear.

“Me too.”

Morty’s eyes open to his darkened bedroom. The light of his alarm clock tells him it’s after midnight but he only managed to fall asleep at a quarter past eleven. 

He is not alone.

There’s a shadow stretching across the room, it slinks over the bed and up the wall. It is impossibly tall and its shape is undetermined. It keeps morphing and changing, unable to settle on a single monstrous form. That freezing, implacable weight that sinks right through Morty's muscles and into his bones returns once again.

Morty shrinks away from the creature beneath the flimsy security of his bed covers.

Whatever that thing is, it strides closer and stands over him, leaning down to inspect him. Morty feels its keen assessing gaze, judging him, surveying him.

Is Morty worth killing?

Morty’s muscles clench so tight it hurts, it feels as though his blood is boiling just beneath his skin, sweat pools at the base of his neck and in behind Morty’s ears, his heart is hammering so loudly he swears the monster must hear it. Morty remembers that sensation again—those grasping, unseen hands, the enemy’s hot breath against the side of Morty’s neck. The sensation of something moving deep inside him, exploring him. A threat lurking beneath those pawing caresses—something sharp and hungry. The certainty that whatever held him there was going to rip him apart as the familiar metallic scent of blood fills the air.

Somewhere close Morty hears the sound of something dripping...

 _Please!_ Morty silently begs. _Please no!_

When Morty dares to open his eyes again, the shadow is gone.

He’s alone.

The room is hushed, like a deep sigh after something catastrophic. Even Morty’s mind is shocked into silence.

That shadow-creature, which seemed so real, has evaporated into the night air leaving Morty lying here, alone in the darkness.

With fresh sweat on his brow, and relentless cold shivers running up and down Morty’s spine, he wraps himself in a cocoon of sheets. The tears come then as shock gives way to misery and Morty cries as quietly as he can. Squeezing his eyes shut tight and biting down on his fist to muffle the sobs.

_Stop… please no… please…_

_“Just let this happen.”_

 

 Even though the shadow-monster has disappeared, Morty feels no relief nor courage. The room is too small, the air stuffy with residual fear. Morty never could understand the kinds of people who need pitch-darkness in order to sleep. On moonless nights, Morty feels as though he can’t breathe. But his mother forbade the use of a night-light ever since Morty’s age hit the double-digits so Morty endures.

He just wishes the nightmares would stay inside his dreams instead of slithering out and tormenting him even while awake. Morty's heard of something called sleep paralysis but he’s pretty certain this isn’t it. He knows his fears aren’t real, even when he's experiencing them, yet Morty could swear he’s being _haunted._

_Just leave me alone! Please just let me sleep..._

Movement catches at the edge of Morty's vision and his eyes snap back to whatever has caught his attention. His muscles become taught and his jaw locks. His heart throbs in alarm and his legs tense as though ready to run.

A rustling of paper tells him it was just an incomplete homework assignment balanced precariously on his desk.

_Fuck!_

It’s too dark.

Morty’s too cold and too hot and too stressed to sleep alone. 

He gets out of bed and pads across the room to the dark hallway.

 

* * *

 

 

Rick’s not sure who is sleeping worse these days: him or his grandson. Alcohol exists to aid him in the monumental but unfortunately necessary task of Not Giving A Fuck.

Yeah, okay, Rick’s an alcoholic.

He knows it.

But more importantly, Rick _understands_ it. Because when you come right down to it there are two main reasons Rick drinks.

Sometimes Rick needs to erase certain things: pain, irritants, mistakes, his… _misdeeds_.

It’s not that big a deal, really. Most people hide from their sins and misery and either drink themselves happy or foot the bill for therapy. Rick just made the less conventional purchase. He owes it to Anheuser-Busch that he can look into the face of the daughter he abandoned. The thirty-year-old woman who will forever be his little girl. The little girl who looks so much like…

 

_So much like…_

 

Rick drains his flask.

Tonight he sits alone in his room—plagued by memories he can barely grasp but which still gnaw relentlessly at the fraying edges of his psyche. The drink and pills won’t numb the pain. Not tonight. But he can at least try for a more relaxing evening. He kicks off his shoes and lies back on his cot to await tonight’s horror show, knowing he will once again bear witness to a soundtrack of whimpers and sobs until morning. And if there’s silence, Rick will have to go upstairs again and investigate, praying he won’t find Morty with a knife again.

_(He’s dreaming about you. About what you did to him.)_

 

He should have killed himself long before he ever met Morty.

 

With his hipflask drained and its contents pleasantly dulling the dread that was previously strangling Rick’s insides, Rick gets up in order to pour himself a margherita from the machine he built for the purpose.

Because the other reason Rick drinks, is to celebrate.

Rick raises his cocktail glass to an empty bedroom. “Here’s to you, Sanchez,” he mutters. “And happy— _ehrrrrp_ —b-birthday.”

He lies back down on his cot and sighs.

“Wubba lubba duh—”

There’s a tentative knock on his bedroom door. Rick scowls and doesn’t bother to sit up. Company is the absolute _last thing_ Rick wants right now.

“Trying to sleep in here!” He calls out gruffly.

“Rick?”

Rick’s heart gives a small enthusiastic swoop at the sound of Morty’s timid voice. He gulps down a mouthful of his cocktail and tries very hard not to choke on it.

“Wh— _hck!_ —what is it?”

“C-can I come in, Rick?”

Rick grimaces and is about to tell him _no_ but the door is already being nudged open and Morty is slipping through it, a sheepish half-smile on his face.

“What do you want, Morty?” Rick asks tersely.

“I… um… aw jeez… I can’t sleep, Rick,” Morty explains nervously. “I haven’t slept since we got back. Sin—since, y’know…” Morty mumbles.

Rick knows. He looks up at the ceiling and huffs loudly through his nostrils.

“I—I… y-you took my stash, Rick,” Morty continues, “and now…now I…”

Rick closes his eyes, weary.

If anyone understands, it’s him.

“Well,” Rick replies, “wh-wh-what do you w- _uuhhhnt_ me to do about it, Morty?”

“Could I… could I sleep with you, Rick?”

Oh _fuck,_ why’d he have to word it like that?

But... Rick owes the kid doesn’t he? After torturing him for hours, the least he can do is provide some comfort while the boy sleeps. 

“Yeh- _erhp-_ yeah, okay, fine, Morty, _fine._ Jus-Just don’t… don’t hog the covers.” Rick scoots over on the bed and Morty pads across the room to lie down next to him.

Rick’s mind immediately flits back to the last time they shared a bed and his groin flushes with sudden heat.

 _Fuck!_ Why does Morty have to make everything so _difficult?!_

It doesn’t help that the cot is a _lot_ smaller than the deluxe super-king at the penthouse.

“You must be exhausted,” Rick says flatly and Morty gives him a nod in response, flaunting those ridiculous girly eyelashes as his gaze flits away and— _god the kid has to be doing it on purpose_ —biting his lip bashfully. Rick’s mouth dries and he tries very _very_ hard not to think about the blood steadily rushing into his dick, leaving his brain blissfully numb and way too giddy for his inhibitions to possibly keep up.

“I… I wish we could have seen the rest of that Ball Fondlers movie,” Morty mumbles. “S-sorry for falling asleep on you the other night.”

“Don’t worry about it, _Morty,”_ Rick rolls his eyes at him. “Just—y’know—we'll try again when y-you’re feeling more awake, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay Rick."

"A-Actually, Morty, they might be playing it at a cinema in Dimension _β-_ 499C if you're—if you're keen for it."

Morty's sleepy face brightens. "Really? Oh-okay, Rick! Yeah, I-I'd... I'd really like that." Morty smiles appreciatively. "Thanks."

There’s an awkward pause where neither of them really feel comfortable looking at each other. Rick clears his throat and looks up while Morty looks down.

“Rick?”

“Mmf.”

“S-sorry about… about—um—about dinner.”

Rick assumes Morty means the incident at Shoney’s the other day. But if Rick’s being charitable, he should have expected it. The kid’s unfortunate phobia of toilet cubicles, it seemed, had only escalated in the wake of being attacked by Mike.

_(And by you, remember?)_

 

After Morty hadn’t returned for several minutes, Rick had walked in to check on him only to find Morty in the foetal position on the dirty bathroom floor. His hair and clothes a mess, and nasty scrapes along his arms as though Morty had been clawing at himself.

“Oh jeez,” Rick muttered, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Fucking _hell_ , Morty…”

Rick aimed his portal-gun to the floor beneath Morty and sent him back to the park where he and Jerry were chucking a football around earlier. This, in hindsight, wasn’t the best idea. As Morty landed uncomfortably on the grass with an ungraceful _oof!_ Rick realized in his haste to get Morty out of the Shoney’s bathroom, he’d positioned the opening-portal a little high which meant Morty endured a three-metre drop onto the hard ground.

Morty would undoubtedly be bruised and now his clothes were rumpled and covered in grass-stains. Rick’s still counting his blessings that Beth was too self-absorbed to notice anything.

Nevertheless the sudden drop clearly frightened Morty. He curled into a tight ball and let out a high-pitched whining sound like a broken fire-alarm.

It took several minutes for Morty to calm down. The entire time, Rick knelt beside him, his fists clenched in his pockets, waiting as patiently as he could while Morty groaned and rocked and hugged himself. As much as it pained him, Rick didn’t dare touch the boy. After all, if Morty was panicked by a _toilet cubicle,_ being manhandled by his torturer would probably render him catatonic. 

And the boy’s mother will only ignore so much...

Eventually, and with a lot of shushing and soothing words from Rick, Morty calmed enough for them to return. He didn’t like being back in the bathroom and there was a bad moment when they were walking back to the table together when Rick thought the kid was going to have another meltdown, but the little trooper pushed through and slid back into the booth next to Rick. Summer's phone was monopolizing her attention and Beth, as usual, was too fixated on herself to notice anything wrong with her son but just to be on the safe side, Rick was especially attentive to her for the rest of that evening.

 

“It’s… i-it’s okay, Morty.” Rick replies quietly. “These things happen, yeah?”

Morty’s deep dark gaze fixes on Rick and Rick stiffens. Those eyes, that face, that worshipful smile that he knows he doesn’t deserve…

Rick should love himself: he completely lost control, physically and mentally tortured the kid, and he’s _still_ the boy’s hero. He didn’t even have to erase Morty’s memory. He’s got _that_ much control over him.

So why does Rick feel like killing himself?

“Rick…”

Morty’s face is way too close. Rick can feel little puffs of Morty's breath tickling his nose. He should back off, ease away, maybe tell Morty how much of a worthless idiot he is for good measure. But with his back against the wall and Morty right here… and Rick’s always been terrible at denying himself what he wa—

“Ah-are you okay, Ri—”

Rick grabs onto the back of Morty’s curls and pushes his face into the crook of his neck and shoulder, hugging the boy tightly to him whilst insistently rubbing between his shoulder blades in an act far more soothing to himself than it could ever be for Morty.

In return, Morty stiffens—probably out of surprise more than anything—but rigidly accepts the tight embrace.

And— _god!_ —he feels so _good._

Now that he’s holding him, Rick can’t imagine ever letting him go. He sustains a firm insistent grip on the back of Morty’s head, clutching the boy for dear life as he closes his eyes and inhales the familiar scent of Morty’s shampoo.

Morty squirms in discomfort, he’s being held too tightly, but Rick doesn’t care. He pulls Morty even closer so the boy’s tight up against him, feeling the beat of Morty’s erratic heart against his own feverish skin.

_He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine._

_(You sick fuck.)_

As a courtesy, Rick consciously relaxes his hold and Morty sucks down a sharp breath of air. It’s cute, actually, how desperate he sounds in that moment, and it's all Rick can do not to laugh fondly. He trades the relentless grip on the back of Morty’s head for a softer one, soothingly combing his fingers through Morty’s curls, his other hand spread possessively on the small of the teen’s back.

Eventually, Morty breaks away from him and as much as it pains him, Rick forces himself to let him go. But instead of pulling away altogether, Morty places a nervous hand on Rick’s bare shoulder as leverage, carefully leans up, and—after nervously wetting them with his tongue—presses his soft cautious lips to Rick’s in the most chaste undeserved kiss Rick has ever experienced.

Rick's whole body goes rigid. All noise around them is silenced. Rick’s bustling mind, for the first time in his long arduous life, has gone completely and comfortably _still._ Rick has made out with a myriad of different aliens, humans, and other entities. But all of them kissed with a sense of charged heat: overeager mouths full of rough, filthy promises; the nastiness of each kiss spilling into the filth that followed—be that anything from sex to genocide. Some wanted to impress him, some wanted to claim him, _all_ wanted to be claimed in return. And it always felt inevitably glorious.

But this is better.

Morty’s kissing him as though he expects nothing back. A gesture of genuine authentic affection. The kiss is sweet, innocent, tender and so… _Morty_.

Rick can’t breathe. He keeps his eyes wide open, drinking in every detail of the perfect moment. The way Morty’s head tilts slightly to the left, the way Morty’s long lashes flutter closed, the little tickle of air from Morty’s nose...

When Morty finally breaks the kiss, he follows it by pressing a second smaller kiss on Rick’s bottom lip—almost like a signature—and then looks up at him nervously, dark eyes wide with selfless concern.

And Rick…

 

Rick thought he had more control.

 

With a deep growl in his throat, Rick descends upon Morty, kissing him brutally. Morty makes a quiet alarmed sound as his head drops heavily onto the pillow, and Rick takes full advantage of Morty’s more prone position. He rolls the boy onto his back, shoving a knee in between Morty’s legs, and mouths greedily at Morty’s bottom lip, drawing out a pained whimper which snaps Rick back to reality and he quickly reminds himself that Morty’s still fragile right now, he won’t want Rick so rough, and so Rick reluctantly gentles the kiss.

Morty tenses and Rick breaks the kiss to look carefully down at his sweet wide-eyed grandson.

 _He’s finally put on some weight._ Rick thinks to himself. _He looks good._ _Looks healthy._

_(Is that the excuse you need to finally take him?)_

Morty bites his lip again and he has _got_ to know the effect that little nervous tick has on Rick by now. The fucking tease! Rick’s sweating, he can _smell_ his own arousal on the air: a heavy, savoury scent that overpowers the nagging voice telling him how sick and wrong he is.

Rick traces his hand down Morty’s flank and feels the boy give a satisfactory shiver as he dips a hand between Morty’s legs, gently feeling over the boy’s budding erection beneath his boxers.

Rick’s brain reboots. He’s back online. Barely.

The kid’s manhood is really something else: It’s not the largest cock Rick’s ever held in his hand but it’s certainly not the smallest either. But the thing that really leaves Rick giddy with excitement is the obvious enthusiasm from the boy. He keens needily and arches desperately into Rick's touch. He can feel Morty already leaking heavily, soaking the crotch of his boxers.

“Stop that.” Rick orders and Morty immediately stops thrusting with a pained groan; his cock throbs aggressively in Rick’s hand, dribbling liberally through the satin and moistening Rick's fingers.

A cold thrill of excitement runs through Rick’s system, travelling straight into his own swollen member.

Morty’s so wonderfully obedient. A pretty little masochist who will take anything Rick dishes out. He doesn’t even need training.

Rick lifts the pant leg of Morty’s boxers, running his fingers up the inside of Morty’s gradually exposed thigh.

“Rick!” Morty whimpers desperately.

A hand claps around Rick’s wrist and Rick hesitates.

“I… I don’t want…” Morty’s trembling, “please, Rick…”

“I can—you’ll forget, baby.” Rick promises. “I’ll make the pain go away.”

Even Rick’s not sure what, specifically, he’s referring to. The time he tortured the boy, Morty’s time with Mr. Jellybean, Mike, or tonight’s upcoming events. (Oh _god!_ He could take Morty _right fucking now_...) But either way, he can erase the memory. All memories. Take away Morty’s pain and make him whole again. 

But Morty’s shaking his head vigorously and emitting a desperate high-pitched whine which causes Rick to stop everything he’s doing.

“M-Morty?”

“Don’t… don’t take…” Morty swallows. “Rick!  _Please!"_

Don’t take the memory? Rick doesn’t like the thought of leaving it there. Guilt gnaws at him every time the boy flinches at his touch. Unless…

The kid got one hell of a hard-on from just a kiss and a cuddle.

“Morty,” Rick asks carefully, “a-a-are you…? You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Embarrassment flushes Morty’s cheeks, which is as good as a _yes_ in Rick’s book. Rick watches Morty’s face redden, his emotions conflicted.

Morty’s seventeen and—yeah, okay, he’s awkward as hell—but he’s definitely not bad looking and Rick figured… at some point… with a _girl_ at the very least…

“S-so no one’s ever—?” Rick runs a hand up Morty’s leg and Morty shudders. “You’ve never let anyone else do this—do anything—to you, have you?”

Morty shakes his head solemnly.

“N-not—um—not willingly.”

Rick feels a sudden stab of anger: hot and hard beneath his ribs, which swiftly reddens his vision and tightens his insides. The alcohol, which ought to numb the effect, only serves to twist the feeling into something even more grotesque. Rick is somehow both too drunk and too sober to deal with that.

_Not willingly._

“Rick?”

Morty’s trembling again, his eyebrows knitted in that familiar Morty expression of selfless concern. Rick closes his eyes and sighs out his anger. Morty’s so _sensitive_ sometimes…

“Shh…” Rick murmurs, cupping Morty’s cheek, “it’s…i-it’s alright.”

“Are you going to erase my memory, Rick?” Morty asks sadly.

“Is that what you want?” Rick asks.

Morty appears to be considering it. Then he shakes his head.

“Okay,” Rick nods. “I won’t take away any more memories, Morty. If—if that’s what you w— r-really want. I... I won't take anything you don't want me to, okay?”

“Promise?”

 

...

 

 

“I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Slow as a sunset, Morty gradually drifts off to sleep.

Rick watches him go. Quietly observing Morty as he relinquishes all the tension and discomfort that's been built over weeks of sleepless nights, until, eventually, Morty's breaths slow to a soothing even rhythm.

Certain the kid's out-cold, Rick finally reaches down and lifts one of the legs of Morty’s boxers, high enough to properly examine his scarred thigh. He appreciates why Morty may be self-conscious, but he can’t understand why the boy gets so paranoid about being seen. The kid’s not completely stupid, he must know Rick’s already aware…

Rick looks closely at the damage. The scars have healed and reopened several times over, creating an almost ragdoll-like effect. Rick then lifts the other side of Morty’s boxers and freezes.

A few miniscule drops of fresh blood run down the exposed skin of Morty’s inner thigh. Rick swallows.

_No… no, Morty…_

The kid hurt himself  _tonight?_ Under _his_ watch? It must have been between supper and when Morty entered Rick’s room.

Rick peels the fabric away from Morty’s skin and winces as he feels it unsticking. He leans down, inspecting the damage. These cuts are different to the others, they’ve been made with something sharper and more precise. A needle perhaps? Maybe a knife…

Rick thinks about the knife he found in the boy’s room the other night. He removed it didn’t he?

The fresher cuts have been made in an odd deliberate pattern and Rick frowns slightly as he paws at them. It looks like Morty tried to carve the letter _P_ …

No, the letter, _R_ …

Rick lifts the fabric higher.

_R…I…C…_

Rick's head swims with sudden queasiness and he decides he doesn't need to see the rest.

Why would Morty carve Rick’s name into his legs?

Of course, it had been dim in the hospital room when he’d last seen them and he had other more urgent matters to attend to the last time he saw Morty without his clothes. But now that he has Morty in the light…

 _rickRick Rickrick/Rick_ **RICK** _Rick R_i _ck ~~rick~~ ric **k** R **I** CK **rick\** RickR **ic** kRickri_ **c** k _R_ i _c_ k _RICKrI_ c **k** _rick **rick**_

…is carved into Morty’s skin repeatedly. It isn’t always legible and if Rick had not been specifically looking for it, he may not have noticed it. But now that he’s seen, he can’t _un_ see the horror etched into his grandson’s flesh like a cruel brand over and over and over…

“Morty…” Rick murmurs, tracing a thumb over one of the thicker, deeper, lines of the letter _K_ , “What have you done to yourself?”

Morty stirs.

Rick stills.

_(That’s not the question you should be asking.)_

Rick’s resolve hardens and he grits his teeth.

He would have liked to have done this with a bit more finesse so as not to risk harming the boy, but it looks as though things are escalating once more, and he cannot risk losing control of Morty again. The kid's getting bold, his pain tolerance undoubtedly through the roof by now. And with each _Rick_ etched deeper and deeper into his flesh Rick is certain that, if left unchecked, Morty will soon be facing irreversible damage to his legs.

And Rick will not allow that.

Rick abandons Morty on the cot and heads into the garage to hunt for an old device he hasn’t bothered to use in many years: it proved a lot more dangerous than expected when it turned out Morty’s math teacher was an unexpectedly lucid dreamer. As a result, it has remained untouched until tonight.

It’s a risk but… _necessary._

Rick removes the small pieces from their old casing.

It’s not a perfect—nor a particularly glamourous—plan, but Rick needs answers urgently and if the movie Inception did anything well, it showed how dreams can reveal the darker secrets buried deep in a person's psyche: a person’s guilt and grief and regret. Skeletons can’t hide in closets if someone rips off the door; and—Rick has to grudgingly admit to himself—this may now be the only way in.

Because no matter what Rick does, Morty just won’t talk.

He slips back into the bedroom and lays down on the cot next to Morty, who immediately curls into Rick’s chest. He makes a small happy noise which causes Rick’s stomach muscles to flutter with an emotion that Rick vaguely recognizes from long ago. Pleasant tingles cascade over crown of his head and he gently encircles his arms around Morty, holding him close, analyzing the seemingly mundane details of his sleeping face, feeling him breathe...

With a strong sense of guilt— _it’s for his own good dammit!_ —weighing heavily on his heart, Rick places the device in Morty’s ear and gets himself comfortable.

“All- _ehrrrp-_ alright, Morty,” Rick whispers, “and awaaaay we go…”

 

 


	8. Within A Dream

"I am holding on to life, I'm drifting in the stream  
Everything's much clearer now  
We live within a dream"

— Kansas, 'Child Of Innocence'

* * *

 

 

Even the most stupidly open-minded Ricks know that Morties don’t dream much and what they do dream about isn’t typically very interesting. If it isn’t Jessica in spandex, it’s being a Vindicator or showing up to school assembly in a tiny purple G-string.

 At least, that’s what Rick has always believed. Rick is beginning to suspect that a lot of the things he has told himself about Morties may be things he wanted to believe rather than things based on concrete evidence. This truth becomes evident as Rick descends into an uncannily familiar antechamber.

The walls are natural-looking rock formations that remind Rick of the den of the hibernating alien wolfman that ripped Morty apart all those months ago. But the floor… the floor is _smooth:_ tiled with black-and-white squares in a pattern that resembles a grand chessboard.

When Rick steps forward, each step releases a deafening echo which bounces irreverently around the empty space. Rick swears the walls will crumble with the noise and he swallows. The sensation is unnerving: being so loud in such an empty silent room. As though he is encroaching on a sacred space or blurting out some terrible secret. Something about the sheer  _wideness_  of the room and the vibration of each footfall is making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and Rick cannot shake the eerie feeling that he is not alone here in the gloom.

Perhaps it is Rick’s autistic tendencies acting up, but something instinctual tells him he should pick one colour and only step on those particular squares.

As silly as he knows the instinct is, Rick can't help but give in to it for no other reason than to comfort himself here in such a cold disturbing place.

Rick chooses black.

He walks further into the antechamber, being careful to keep his feet only on the black tiles. His footsteps are—if possible—even louder now: they pierce the silence and echo ruthlessly within Rick’s skull. Each one sharp and intrusive and _unwanted_. Rick can almost _see_ each sound. Still, he presses forward, desperately resisting the urge to fall to his knees and press his knuckles into his temples.

Finally, after a walk that could have been minutes or hours, Rick spies a blue-tinged light source in the distance. It appears to be a single narrow beam of natural sunlight shining like a spotlight from a small hole in the ceiling. When Rick nears it, he realizes the light has fallen on a single small table littered with tiny objects, sitting ominously in the very centre of the antechamber.

As he cautiously approaches the table, Rick realizes with sharp surprise that it isn’t a table at all! But rather an ornate marble chessboard which matches the black-and-white tiled floor.  

Rick looks down at the pieces and is curious to find they don’t match the material of the chessboard; instead of marble, they look as though they are made of painted glass. Rick frowns. It's such an odd little detail for a Morty-dream and Rick isn't certain why it bothers him. After quickly glancing around and seeing no one, Rick reaches out to pick up one of the black pawns.

“No, Rick,” a young voice laughs. Rick turns to see Morty walking up beside him and is unnerved to find Morty’s footsteps have no echo. “D-Don’t you— _heh_ —don’t you know white always moves first?”

“Duh!” Rick says crossly, withdrawing his hand and folding his arms. “I-I’m the one who told _you_ that, remember _Morty?”_

“You only stand on the black, Rick,” Morty says flatly, looking around at the tiles, “the white ones are hot lava.”

“Man, you really are a kid,” Rick rolls his eyes as Morty jumps his white knight over his pawns. “And you suck at chess, Morty.”

“I know,” Morty shrugs, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy playing. Y-Your move, Rick.”

“So does— _brrurrp_ —does this mean you also only stand on the black tiles?” Rick sneers. “Is—is this whole place your own private  _'f_ _loor is made of lava'_ game, _Morty?"_

Rick moves his black pawn to the square diagonal from Morty’s white knight.

Morty looks up at Rick with a confused frown. “Tiles?”

Rick blinks and looks around the antechamber. The black tiles are gone. Vanished. As though they were never there in the first place! Rick is now surrounded by pure white marble floor (or… _"hot lava"_ ). It makes the room seem even larger, somehow, the ceiling seems higher, and Rick’s knees weaken at the sudden rush of vertigo.

He looks back at Morty with alarm but finds—to his shock—that Morty is gone; replaced with the towering form of an alien wolfman from Floorporian-6, which bares its teeth at Rick hungrily and lowers its stance ready to pounce.

But Rick is ready.

He leaps forward in order to swing up behind the creature’s shoulder blades and aim his weapon into the fleshy part of its neck where the base of the animal's skull meets its spine. Rick's done it before, after all, and defeating the creature in a dream—where Rick has an endless arsenal of weaponry—should be a piece of cake.

But when Rick reaches into his lab coat for a gun, he finds himself terrifyingly empty-handed.

The fuck…? How did he get disarmed?

The wolfman shakes him off easily and Rick skids across the smooth floor in a clumsy heap, his legs tangled in his lab coat. He scrambles backwards away from the wolfman, desperately feeling around for something he can use as a weapon. There are plenty of _rocks_ ...none within arm’s reach... there’s the chessboard, the pieces…

Rick seizes a piece at random and smashes it against the table. The glass shatters and he grabs a shard in order to leap up and slice into the wolfman’s jugular. Blood splatters across the pure white floor and stains Rick's lab coat with red. Once the deed is done, the creature sinks to the ground, and with a gurgle and a wet-sounding grunt it slumps over onto its side. It isn’t dead, not yet, but it’s not going to survive much longer. Blood is pooling at the corner of its mouth and its eyes are drooping. Rick looks down at the piece he grabbed, which is now stained red with the creature’s blood, and realizes it isn’t a chess piece at all. Somehow, during the fight, the chess piece has grown and morphed into an object that vaguely resembles a broken light bulb.

Dreams are weird like that, Rick notes. Little details can change sporadically and the dreamer just sort of… _goes with it._ It makes most dream-interpretation hacky at best and it means Rick may have some trouble navigating Morty's mind if he isn’t careful.

 _Dammit!_ Rick thinks, irritated. _Morty-dreams are supposed to be boring!_

Rick sinks down to his knees and leans over the slowly-dying alien wolfman, quickly inserting the dream device into the creature’s ear before the creature dies completely. He then nestles against the creature’s warm fur and places the corresponding earpiece in his own ear.

With a sleepy sigh, Rick leans his head back and closes his eyes…

 

* * *

 

Poles on tables, drinks in hands, low murmurs of pleasure and quiet laughter can be heard in the background. Bass-heavy music is playing and there is an atmosphere of excitement. There's no mystery here; Rick's descended into a strip joint.

But this isn't like anywhere he's been before, after all, this is  _Morty's_ ideal strip joint.

The lighting has a pleasant orange-tinge to it, gifting the club an atmosphere that is more comforting than overtly erotic. The ground feels like fur and the place smells of Thanksgiving Dinner. Rick hates to admit it but, the place is kind of... _nice._ There are red-haired, freckle-cheeked dancers climbing the poles on each table, the kinds of ladies who would make Rick’s mouth water if it weren’t for the fact each one is ridiculously dressed as a sexy comic-book hero or—in the case of a furiously making-out Harley and Ivy—sexy villains.

Adding to the weirdness, portholes line the walls, suggest the club is situated entirely underwater. Occasionally, Rick observes a _very_ attractive mermaid or two swim past and wave enthusiastically.

Rick shoves his knuckles between his teeth and bites down.

 _Focus…_ Rick he reminds himself as a particularly foxy mermaid blows him a kiss. _Focus. Focus on Morty…_

“Rick?” a husky voice asks nervously.

Rick turns and is surprised to find himself face-to-face with Jessica of all people! Instead of her usual blouse-'n-skirt get-up, she’s wearing a violet and black outfit complete with mask, cape, and impractically exposed midriff. In one hand, she holds a drink tray, and in the other she holds a flogger.

 _Huh…_ Rick thinks to himself. _Guess Morty’s still holding a torch for the girl._

As he pushes down an odd ugly feeling which swirls around his gut, Jessica tilts her head to one side in mild confusion. “What are you doing here Rick?”

“Uh…” Rick begins, and Jessica shakes her head in disappointment.

“You know Morty’s been looking for you.”

“H-he _has?”_ Rick coughs and quickly adopts a more blasé attitude. “I m-mean—uh—he has, has he?”

“Uh, _obviously!_ Jeez, Rick, you know how impatient he gets!” Jessica places a hand on her hip. “Go!”

“Uh…and where—wh-where would I find him?”

Jessica tuts and rolls her eyes. “He’s feeding Frank.”

“Oh good th-that— _errrrrp_ —really cl-clears things up, thanks a billion Jessica,” Rick replies coldly before continuing his search.

Morty’s not at the bar, he’s not receiving a private lap-dance from Black Widow, Jean Grey  _or_ Scarlet Witch, he’s not even in the bathroom…

Rick finally opens the door to one of the private rooms and immediately stops dead in his tracks. It’s all he can do not to cry out in surprise.

Turns out, _Frank_ is a pet giraffe. And by _“feeding Frank”_ Jessica meant—

Rick swallows back a laugh but can't help the grin which stretches across his face.

“Now that,” he chortles, “is _really_ something!”

“What are you doing?” Jessica suddenly appears at Rick’s side. “Don’t just stand there! You know what he likes, hop to it!”

Rick turns to look at Jessica who is frowning up at him impatiently, one hand resting petulantly on her hip again.

 _Jeez, why does Morty like this girl again?_ He thinks crossly. _She is seriously fucking bossy…_

“Believe me,” Rick says with a wistful sigh, “there is _nothing_ I’d like more.”

Faster than lightning, Rick seizes the flogger from Jessica’s hand. Before she can protest, Rick’s hit her over the head with the handle. Once she’s knocked out, Rick tosses the flogger to the side and shoves the earpiece into Jessica's ear before settling himself down on one of the remarkably comfortable booth seats.

“Lookin’ for a good time, sailor?” purrs Batgirl as Rick leans back in his seat.

“J-j _UUSt_ looking for my grandson, babe,” Rick nods up at her before inserting his own earpiece.

 

* * *

 

This time Rick descends into something which clearly isn’t an ordinary dream.

Rick looks over at his daughter who is tied up and struggling desperately while Morty and Summer remain gagged and bound in their own prisons.

This is a memory. A memory Rick is fairly certain he removed.

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Beth Smith…”

Memory removal is a tricky, intricate process that requires a lot of fine tinkering. Remove too much and a person can end up permanently brain damaged. Remove too little or do a sloppy job of it and a person’s memory can _regrow_ with the remains. This is especially common if the subject is smart enough to detect something is amiss and begins searching for clues as to where thirty-six hours of their lives suddenly went.

Not that this means Morty is particularly smart. Perfect accuracy is impossible when a third party requests the memory be removed. This particular memory took a _lot_ of guesswork on Rick’s part. It was no wonder something remained...

“…only have to _choose._ ”

“Summer!” Beth cries.

Even the cyclops’ eye widens at the speed of Beth’s decision. Something dark and incongruous slithers into the forefront of Rick’s mind and with his teeth clenched tightly together, he swallows back the bile that is suddenly rushing up into his throat.

The feeling is worsened when Beth repeats “Summer” a second time with more assertion, removing any trace of ambiguity.

(As if there were any to begin with.)

Rick can feel something hot and awful rising inside him.

He’d always known, but never acknowledged, that his daughter loved her first-born more than her second. And when Morty and Beth wouldn’t look at each other when they arrived home that day, and Beth quietly pulled Rick aside to explain why, Rick silently understood and refrained from harsh judgement. After all, Beth's only human and he knew she felt guilty, he knew Morty was not the child she chose…

But Rick had no idea just how ready Beth was to erase her son from existence. As though she saw the Sophie’s Choice scenario as an opportunity rather than a cruel trap.

Rick watches himself descend into the scene through his portal, landing perfectly between the two monsters and his two grandchildren.

“You’re not going to believe this—”

But Rick’s not looking at himself, he’s looking at Morty whose eyes are still wide with dismay and disbelief and absolute… resignation. Rick hadn’t noticed it at the time, he was too busy with his own mess, but in that moment the boy looks completely and utterly _broken._

The rest of the memory is still playing out the way Rick remembers.

“What’s with you assholes?”

“Um…well…we—uh…” Beth begins guiltily.

Summer spits out her gag as she falls out of her broken spherical prison. “The cyclops warlord made Mom choose between me and Morty and—”

“—Summer!” Beth warns with tight eyes and a forced-smile, “Gr-Grandpa Rick doesn’t need to know that.”

“Doesn’t need to know _what?”_ Dream-Rick glares at his daughter.

Morty’s staring at the ground. While the other three argue, Rick approaches him tentatively. He can’t help himself. The kid’s clearly in pain and all his stupid fucking family can do is stand around throwing shit at each other like a bunch of apes.

_(You’re arguing too, remember?)_

“Morty?”

Morty doesn’t speak, he’s staring numbly at his shoes, his expression unsettlingly blank.

“Buddy?”

“Rick?” Morty blinks up at him. “Uh… wh-why are there two of you?”

_Fuck!_

Rick screwed up! Beth, Summer, and the other Rick are all staring at him now. Morty’s subconscious has spotted him!

_Fuck! Oh fuck!_

Rick sprints to his other self, who thankfully doesn’t put up a fight, and seizes a taser from the asshole's his coat pocket. He knocks the other Rick unconscious and jams the earpiece into each of their ears as fast as he can.

 

* * *

 

The next stop on Rick’s descent is one that Rick knew he would have to face eventually.

Rick presses himself against the wall of the tavern bathroom, knowing he won't be seen unless he wishes it. Especially vivid memories are unique like that.

He gags silently as the smell of booze and urine wafts up his nose. He foresaw this but that doesn't mean he looked forward to it.

“Hi Mr. Jellybean, I’m Morty…”

 _Fucking hell!_ Irritation claws at Rick’s mind and he growls under his breath. _Can’t you see that that thing wants you? Can’t you recognize the signs, you idiot?  FUCK you practically_ asked _for this to happen!_

“…but I’m afraid it’s gone a little too far off the rails…” Morty casually explains to the creep eyeing him from his neighbouring sink. 

Rick’s irritation devolves into sorrow when he looks at Morty’s sweet inviting smile.

_He used to be so friendly…_

“…isn’t that what adventures are supposed to do?”

“H-hey, y’know what? You’re right. Everything’s going _fine._ I just got to relax and go with the flow.” Morty’s beaming at his reflexion, that brilliant warm light still shines behind his eyes, and Rick realizes with gut-punching clarity that this was _it:_ the last day—last _moment_ —he would ever his grandson as a _child_ before he suddenly and painfully grew up; the chaos of the universe ripping into his innocence and leaving it ruined and torn.

 _(And with his innocence successfully destroyed, you stopped seeing a grandson_ — _)_

_Shut up…_

“Oh-okay. Uh…b-bye,” Morty stammers, pulling away from the creature.

 _(_ — _and started seeing something to **fuck.** )_

_I said SHUT UP!_

“Oh no! Stay.” The creature insists, trailing its slimy purple-grey fingers over Morty’s torso, travelling lower… “go with the flow.”

 _Don’t intervene,_ Rick tells himself. _Don’t do it. It’s a memory. It happened. You can’t fix it or change it. You have to just let it_ —

But that creature is _touching_ him…

“Stop!” Morty insists, shoving the jellybean away, “You’re making me really uncomfortable.”

Rick clenches his fists.

The jellybean roughly grabs Morty by the forearms and drags him back. Morty’s broken out in a panicked sweat and he desperately shoves the creature in return. He lashes out: pulling and kicking, but the creature loses its patience and grabs the back of Morty’s head, brutally shoving the boy’s face against the bathroom sink.

“Stop fighting me,” the creature grunts before purring into Morty’s ear. “Just let this happen.”

The creature then hauls Morty upright and starts dragging him into the nearest toilet cubicle.

Rick’s insides twist.

He plans to fuck Morty in a _toilet?_ The same place where he _shits?_

“—Stop being such a fucking _tease,_ you sweet little twat!”

Rick can’t stop himself. Without thinking, he lunges forward but is suddenly rooted to the spot. Morty lets out an enraged shriek and has suddenly turned the tables on the creature. A swift punch to the creature’s face, an equally merciless kick to its stomach, followed by jamming its filthy face into the toilet bowl and beating the creature with the toilet seat, finally renders the hideous creature incapacitated and lying slumped over in a puddle of its own blood and filth.

That’s adrenaline for you.

When it’s over, Morty drops to the floor and scrambles backwards towards the cubicle door. Rick watches as Morty gasps down giant sobs of air while cowering in the corner. His clothes rumpled, his hair flat and stuck to his neck and face with sweat. Morty stares down at his hands, which are sticky with the creature’s foul-smelling blood, as Morty desperately attempts to process what has happened while at the same time regain control of his epinephrine-fueled body. 

 _Well done, Morty._ Rick thinks, despite himself.  

Morty swallows down the last of his panic and rising on shaking legs, slowly staggers his way to the sink where he washes his hands in a kind of stupor. His eyes look empty now, completely devoid of emotion. He hasn't cried yet, though his breaths are coming in shaking sobs as though tears are just a hiccup away.

Rick knows what comes next: Morty’s going to come out to the bar, find him, and beg to leave. And Rick’s going to find out what happened—one look, and he knew—and silently swear revenge.

As the bathroom door swings shut, Rick hears a groan behind him. The creature is rising to its feet, rubbing at its bruised back and looking down at its own injuries with a forlorn expression.

 _Dear god._ The creature _actually_ feels sorry for itself?

Mr. Jellybean turns to look at itself in the mirror. It massages the angry welts and bruises that decorate its face and then freezes when it spots Rick's reflection suddenly looming behind him.

“Wh-who are—?”

Rick’s lips spread into a wide enthusiastic smile and he clamps a hand down on Mr. Jellybean’s shoulder. The creature, sensing danger, immediately tries to pull away which Rick puts a stop to easily with a firmer hold and a foot in front of the creature’s path. As Rick's relentless metal fingernails dig into Mr. Jellybean’s wounds Rick lowers his voice, leaning in close to whisper against the creature’s cheek.

“In this context,” he mutters, “y-you could say I’m the thing the nightmares are afraid of.”

Mr. Jellybean’s eyes widen in realization.

“Mmm… _thaaat’s_ right,” Rick purrs, turning his thumbnail into a tiny diamond-tipped drill, which he places against the back of Mr. Jellybean’s head. “Now then. Let’s see what happens when _you_ get penetrated.”

Mr. Jellybean squirms and then thrashes in Rick’s grip, but the creature is nothing compared to him and Rick poetically shoves the creature’s face into the bathroom sink.

“Oh, and you can go ahead and scream, by the way,” Rick grins, “makes my dick hard.”

 

* * *

 

Rick sinks deeper and deeper into Morty’s subconscious. It turns out his memory gun is pretty seriously flawed which, even if this journey proves fruitless, is still pretty pertinent data that Rick needs.

Rick watches himself abandon Morty outside a strip club. He watches Morty get carried away by a Croosalugg while he naps in the car. He watches Morty get tortured, laughed at, bullied, and abused… by him.

And of course Morty had no idea, did he? Hell, even Rick failed to admit it to himself until only a few months ago.

It was all to detract from the awful sick truth.

Rick watches as Morty’s face lights up after a particularly arduous mission. The boy had nearly been killed multiple times and he’d been forced to kill several humanoid aliens—

But now it was all okay. Everything would be alright because Rick was there, and Rick was going to fix everything and be the boy’s hero.

Dream-Rick is patting the boy’s head as he smiles down at him fondly, telling him how proud he is…

Morty gazes up at Rick and Rick cringes.

He remembers that look the boy gave him. Those big brown eyes shining with gratitude, the way the light caught them in such a way that made them the colour of honey, and the way his mouth curled into a dopey grin that made Rick’s insides melt like chocolate in the sunlight.

He was _not_ going to let himself feel that way. Certainly not for someone so mundane and ordinary and _stupid._ Certainly not for someone he was related to. Certainly not for a… a… _human._

At that moment the feeling was eclipsed by an overbearing unshakeable need to _hurt_ the boy. To throw him off the scent but also to punish them both for the tender moment.

He immediately pantsed the kid and pushed him down the stairs, laughing uproariously as the kid cried and wiped his snotty nose on the back of his sleeve; his knees and elbows now covered in tiny grazes and Rick’s heart hurt to look at them. But he squashed the feeling deep down and continued to laugh uproariously while Morty wept.

Rick can hate Mike and Mr. Jellybean and the universe all he likes. In the end, he is the one masking perversion with abuse. He is the one who took Morty's innocence and sacrificed it to the void.

He can never be forgiven.

 

* * *

 

Rick delves deeper and deeper. They’re in the hospital now, where Morty is mostly shrouded in darkness, hooked to every machine the Smith’s medical insurance can afford to waste on him.

Voices waft through the dark corridors:

“…poor boy, no one has come to see him…”

“…And his sister seemed so scared for him, the day he was admitted.”

“…asks about his Grandpa every day….”

“…If he just had _one_ visitor. His parents, maybe a friend from school…”

“…He’s skin and bones. Do his parents even feed him?”

Rick winces.

It was never easy to visit Morty in hospital. Every time he did, Rick dreaded the boy waking and finding him there. He dreaded the thought of having to explain himself, having to defend what  ~~they~~ he did at the hotel, having to admit to the shame of his unhealthy attraction and that he was the reason Morty lay in this awful place in the first place. And seeing Morty hurt and vulnerable and unloved made Rick feel powerless against his own emotions,as though Rick were an ordinary sentimental human, which was something Rick could  _not_ abide!

Yet, for reasons Rick could only acknowledge in concept, he kept returning. He sat at Morty's bedside every night and waited until dawn. Never touching him, simply sitting in prayerful silence, hoping for miracles that don't make sense and could never be granted.

And now, as though Morty's mind is fucking mocking him, Rick has been dragged back here. 

Morty’s lying on his back staring up at the hospital ceiling, one hand held absentmindedly in front of his face, his cheeks shining in the surreal moonlight with drying tears.

He looks so fragile and  _little_ and so alone.

And Rick…

...is weak.

Without thinking about it, without acknowledging what a huge mistake it could be—or that it will almost definitely alert Morty's subconscious to his intrusion—Rick steps out of the shadows and drags his feet to Morty's bedside. Before Morty has even noticed him, Rick gently inserts his own hand into Morty’s, gently interlocking their fingers together. He will never get over how perfectly their hands fit together, even though they are such different sizes, sometimes Rick could swear the boy was made just for him.

 

 

"Rick?"

 

Morty doesn't look shocked or outraged or surprised. The voices outside do not change or falter. 

 

Rick smiles down at his grandson.

 

"Hey."

 

 

 


	9. Sweet Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Heavy Smut. Consent is dubious at best.

"Illusions, of course, are by their nature sweet."

\-- Dangerous Liaisons

 

* * *

 

 

Morty rolls himself onto his back and lifts a hand in front of his face.

There should be a hole in that hand.

Rick once absent-mindedly shot his laser gun straight through it. Morty wailed with agony and Rick grunted, annoyed, before wordlessly stabbing Morty with one of his many mysterious syringe-guns. Then Rick stood back and laughed while Morty watched with horror as cartilage and shattered bones were knitted back together in less than a second. And despite a pungent smell of blood and burning flesh, Morty felt better than ever. He’d been grateful, of course, if a little embarrassed by his babyish screaming. And Rick had looked at him like his fear of mortality was the most ridiculous, most delightful, most entertaining thing in the universe. 

Morty had been offended at the time. But now Morty's grown up enough to understand that it wasn't Rick's fault for reacting in such a way. Not really. Expecting empathy from Rick is like expecting water to leak from a stone. 

Morty wiggles his perfectly intact fingers, making a fist and then flattening out his hand again. Tears drip silently down his cheeks. He mourns the human feeling of pain. The human reaction of fear.

Fear used to be what kept him alive. When his instincts told him to run, he ran. When they told him to throw punches or struggle, he fought. He did everything he humanly could to preserve his own existence.

But now…

Fear is no longer attached to a specific danger and instead it wanders free. It seeps into his dreams, making him flinch at shadows and dread falling asleep.

With all the science and technology used to keep him alive, Morty may as well be a machine himself. Every time he cuts himself, he wonders if oil—not blood—will leak from his torn flesh. With a pain tolerance through the roof and syringes full of various sci-fi medicines at the ready, Morty no longer fears injury or even death.

Why be afraid when you can be artificially brave?

Why feel pain when you can be artificially numb?

Morty closes his eyes, squeezing out the last bitter tears. In just a few hours he will be awakened with the glare of sunlight intruding into his bedroom and the putrid smell of breakfast food downstairs. He may as well try and get some sleep.

 

Why be alive when you can be…

 ...

 

...

 

Thin fingers interlock themselves perfectly through Morty’s.

“Rick?” Morty blinks. He sits up with a start and—sure enough—Rick is here. Morty didn’t hear him come in, didn’t see the familiar swirls of green light that signal the creation of a portal.

But it is undeniable: as though birthed by the shadows themselves, Rick is here. He’s looking down at Morty with a familiar stern expression, his eyes distant but not vacant, an odd twitch at the corner of his mouth hints at a restrained smile. He gives a firm nod in confirmation.

"Hey."

"You...y-you're really here, Rick?" Morty stammers.

Rick’s mouth is all Morty can focus on at this moment and Morty hastily wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Rick moves closer and sits down on Morty’s bed.

“’Course I... 'course I am,  _Morty,_ ” Rick states, exasperated. “I visited Jerry in hospital, so of course— _euurrrp_ —course I’m gonna come v-visit  _you_ , Morty, jeez…” Rick rolls his eyes.

Morty sighs sadly, because Morty is not stupid, even though everyone likes to believe he is. He knows Rick never visited him—never  _would_  visit him. And he’s got a vague feeling somewhere in the distance that he already left the hospital.

No… this is not reality. It can't be. 

As vividly real as Rick seems—the expression, the strong way he holds himself, the odd softness to his mostly calloused skin, even the familiar smell of diesel oil and whiskey and other alien concentrates that always accompanies him—Morty knows Rick would never deign to be here in this miserable place.

But, still... Morty so desperately  _wishes_ it to be real. So it must be. There is no other—

“I…” Morty bites his lip in thought as he searches for the right words… finally Morty settles dumbly on the memory that continues to relentlessly to plague his waking thoughts, “y-you kissed me, Rick.”

 _Twice!_ Morty thinks accusingly.  _Or was it more times than that...?_

“Ah- _u_ _h!”_  Rick coughs. “Y-yeah…”

“We never talked about it…” Morty laments. “You kissed me and then you... y-you..." Morty can't bring himself to actually say it aloud so he hastily stuffs that line of thinking back where it belongs. "We never talked about it," Morty repeats. "Y-You never talk to me, Rick. You never tell me anything.”

Rick squeezes Morty’s hand and Morty looks up into his grandfather’s distinguished face. Even though Rick's features are half concealed in shadow, Morty swears he can see the lines around Rick's eyes and mouth deepen, as though Rick were pained by Morty's words.

Morty lifts a hand to gently touch his grandfather’s cheek and Rick flinches away, his gaze swiftly finding the floor.

“Rick…?” Morty sits up properly in his hospital bed. Rick hastily removes his hand from Morty’s, and turns away. “A-Are you alright?”

Rick clears his throat.

“Yeh— _uh!_  Yeah, M-Morty, I-I’m fine.”

He's not. That much is obvious. But more Not Talking from Rick? Morty would be a fool to expect anything different. 

Morty leans forward and gingerly places a tender hand on Rick’s thigh in what he hopes Rick interprets as a gesture of sympathy. To Morty’s relief, Rick doesn’t flinch away, and Morty smiles with unbridled gratitude, boldly giving Rick's thigh a tender squeeze.

Maybe Rick is slowly learning to trust him?

Maybe Rick will finally—

Morty gasps in surprise when Rick suddenly  _turns_  on him. His eyes flaming, his lip curled, muscles tensed in what Morty assumes is rage. Morty shrinks back, quickly withdrawing his hand.

But Rick crowds in on him, leaning over him and forcing him to lie back on the bed. Morty’s holding himself up by his shaking forearms as he looks up fearfully at his leering grandfather, trying desperately to figure out what it is he has done to piss him off.

“Don’t play with fire, kid,” Rick snarls.

“What…wh-what do you mean R—”

Rick’s mouth finds Morty’s and Morty tastes the hot spice of alcohol mixed in with the natural slightly sweet taste of Rick’s saliva. His lips are softer than Morty anticipated, the kiss gentler than his foreboding expression could have implied, and Morty presses into it; savouring the unique feel and flavour of Rick's mouth. 

Rick pulls away suddenly, leaving Morty's heart bruised.

 _“That,_ Morty!” Rick hisses. “Th-that’s what I mean. D'you—do you have any  _idea_  what you make me want to do to you Morty? Do you have any idea what it fucking does to me to look at you?”

Morty stiffens. Rick is as terrifying as he is wonderful and even though he knows it’s a dream, it doesn’t stop the cold thrill of fear that shoots through his veins. He recoils, scooting up the bed away from Rick who clamps a hand down onto his leg, holding him still. Morty gulps.

Rick crowds in on him, crawling up the bed and straddling Morty’s lap.

“And do you know what it does to me…” Rick continues in a low dangerous voice, “…when I watch you flinch away from me?”

Morty pales.

Of  _course._

Run from a predator and it can’t help but give chase.

Morty’s insides feel like ice and he shudders anxiously as the hand on his leg firms its hold. Rick’s pressing his weight into that hand and it’s quickly crossing the line from a little uncomfortable to downright possessive.

Rick says nothing. He’s watching Morty in silence. Waiting. Analysing. Morty squirms in discomfort beneath the scrupulous gaze, he gulps thickly and attempts to sit up. Rick lets him, just enough for Morty to be closer, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

He’s letting the moment draw out. Psychologically tormenting Morty with the fear and anticipation of...  _something_  happening next. More kissing perhaps? Or—Morty trembles under Rick's piercing blue gaze—maybe Rick wants something  _more._

Morty’s mind drifts to a cruel dark place… he thinks of purple hands feeling him over and the way their deceptively gentle touch turned violent so suddenly when Morty dared to pull away—

“None of that.” Rick says sternly.

The brakes slam on Morty's mind and he’s jolted back into the hospital room once more with Rick leaning over him. It’s a dream. He knows it’s a dream. And he remembers that sometimes in dreams he stupidly conflates various characters from his past. His mind is cruel like that. But this dream is different. This  _Rick_  is different. Rick seems to sense where Morty’s subconscious is taking him and is seizing it in his ruthless metallic grip and bending it to his own will.

And as unnerving as it is, Morty is all too willing to go along with that.

Rick may hurt him. Humiliate him. Rick may leave him winded and confused and afraid, but some part of him—and Morty isn’t sure how prominent that part might be—still trusts Rick. 

He will always trust Rick.

Rick sits motionless, straddling him. Grateful for the anchor keeping him here and away from the memories that haunt him, Morty smiles weakly up at his grandfather’s severe face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Rick is silent, his expression unreadable.

Morty worries at his bottom lip with his teeth.

And then Rick  _attacks._

His lips are on Morty’s. Not gentle this time but rough, brutal, demanding Morty grant Rick entrance. And Morty—too frazzled and overwhelmed to think of any other option—gives in and lets him in.

Rick gives a satisfied hum as he thrusts his tongue inside Morty’s mouth, eagerly tasting and exploring Morty's interior. When Rick lets out a pleasure-torn groan it vibrates an echo against the ceiling of Morty's mouth and Morty shivers excitedly at the thought of eliciting such a reaction.

Meanwhile, Rick’s hands are wandering; he's pushing up in between Morty’s legs, under his hospital gown. The hand that was on his hip is now splayed possessively over Morty's stomach.

It shouldn’t feel good.

But with all thoughts of monsters chased away, Morty can’t help but enjoy each touch. Rick feels him over in a way that only a scientist can: as though he is both appreciating and analyzing even the most mundane details. 

When Rick trails his fingers up to Morty’s chest and runs his fingertips over Morty’s sensitive cold-hardened nipple, Morty  _moans_. He doesn’t mean to, and his cheeks instantly redden at the whorish sound—his gaze darting fearfully to the hallway—but Rick chuckles darkly and places a hand over Morty’s mouth.

“Shush now,” he purrs. “You keep nice and quiet now, y'hear Morty?”

Morty nods and Rick bares his teeth in a smile that borders on sinister. A moment later, Rick has removed the hand covering Morty's mouth and is gently prying Morty’s legs apart. Morty, with a clench of self-conscious alarm, attempts to push his thighs together, pointlessly of course, because Rick tuts at him impatiently and his touch becomes more insistent. Morty opens for him then—his cheeks flushed with shame—as Rick slowly lifts the hospital gown in order to display Morty’s naked and obvious erection.

Rick’s smile widens hungrily when he spies it and he draws in a sharp breath.

“Well then…” he whispers in amusement.

Morty averts his eyes.

Within seconds, Rick has wrapped careful soft fingers around Morty’s swollen cock. He’s swiping his thumb over Morty’s slit and smearing the precome down over the shaft, the same way he did that other time in the hotel. Morty arches his back, trying as hard as he can to keep quiet.

It feels good—way better than Morty wants it to—he keeps telling himself he can do this: he can hold it together and keep quiet and keep Rick here. But Rick is making it difficult. When Morty looks up at him, he sees the unmistakeable glint of delight in Rick’s eyes. Rick knows what he’s doing to Morty. Knows it and  _loves_ it.

Rick caresses Morty’s cock with a slight twist near the base and Morty stifles a whimper. Encouraged, Rick strengthens the caress until Morty gives a whole-body shudder and collapses more heavily back against the bed, letting his legs splay open in an attempt to give Rick more room to work.

Parts of Morty are relaxing while the rest of him grows tight with desire. As Rick draws pleasured whimpers and groans from Morty’s lips, something…  _else…_  edges closer and Morty feels as though doors and windows inside his mind are slowly opening, not just allowing but  _inviting_  Rick inside of them.

Morty gasps, tensing as he senses Rick’s warm imposing presence deep within his own mind, his own  _soul:_  analysing his thoughts, his feelings, moving about and loosening knots, unlocking things Morty didn’t know he had hidden.

Doubt crashes in like a wave and Morty tenses.

 _Fuck!_  He isn’t ready for something like this.

“Rick… _please…_ ” Morty whispers, “ _stop._ ”

To Morty’s surprise, Rick does.

He looks down at Morty’s face with a frown.

“No…” Morty shakes his head quickly. “I… I don’t… please Rick… I—”

But Rick leans in and kisses him. He’s tender and careful, but firm, which reminds Morty of his place in all of this.

Rick is his lifeline—his protector—he’s the monster that keeps the other horrors at bay. He’s Morty’s saviour and his guide.

Morty has no  _right_  to deny him.

And right now, a large part of Morty doesn’t want to anyway.

“Your mouth says no, Morty,” Rick murmurs when their lips part, one hand dropping down onto Morty’s thigh and then easing around back to Morty’s groin, “but your body, Morty…”

Morty groans and then promptly covers his mouth to muffle the sound. Rick smirks.

“I think your body is being a little more  _honest_  don’t y—don’t you think?”

Morty doesn’t have a response to that. Hunger swirls inside him, mingling with shame and guilt and the  _NeedWantNeed_ to have Rick inside him again.

Rick lets go of Morty’s angrily throbbing cock and Morty emits a small annoyed grunt in response. Rick chuckles with dark amusement and grips Morty’s shoulder in his long-fingered hand. He just holds him there for a moment, thumb sweeping back and forth over the skin of Morty’s chest—and Morty realizes with a churn of his gut just how  _small_  he is lying beneath such a mighty man—and then gives Morty’s shoulder slight, urging tug. Uncomprehending, Morty stays put.

Rick tugs again: more demanding this time and with a matching irritated crease upon his brow. It’s an order, Morty realizes, instructing him to turn over. To present himself for Rick’s enjoyment and use. Morty’s hands ball into fists and he clutches at in the bed sheets in a sudden surge of resistance, but when Rick tugs his shoulder a third time, the surge fades and Morty obeys.

(Morty has no right to deny him.)

When Morty rolls onto his side, Rick seizes the pillow from beneath Morty’s head and yanks it out from under him, causing Morty to let out clumsy _"oof!"_ as his face falls heavily against the mattress. Morty glares indignantly into the sheets as Rick then guides him onto his belly, the pillow positioned just below Morty’s abdomen, forcing him to raise his posterior.

Morty's heart thuds. He draws in a shuddering breath of cold anticipation.

This is going to  _hurt_. He knows it and fears it. And when Rick finally touches him—hands landing lightly on the small of Morty’s back, stroking downwards—Morty lets out a loud whoosh of air in surprise. He was expecting Rick to aim—well— _lower._ He expected merciless metal fingers to rip his cheeks apart and push in. Instead, Rick’s tracing light reverent fingers down Morty’s spine in a caress that feels almost like worship.

Head reeling, Morty tenses with the contrast and suddenly feels Rick’s breath in his ear.

“What’s wrong, Morty?”

_Everything!_

Morty wants to cry out.

 _Everything is wrong with me, Rick! With this! With us! I'm afraid of you but I also think I might be in love with you and...and that makes no sense because... because you're my Grandpa and that’s…that’s fucking_ sick!  _A_ _nd I’m so fucked-up and confused and—and ugly—and horny and… and… and…_

“I-I’m s-scared, Rick…” is all Morty manages to choke out.

He feels Rick nod knowingly, as though Morty actually voiced his rapid-fire thoughts out loud.

“What are you scared of, Morty?”

_MYSELF!_

Morty gulps.

“I’m scare—scared that this… that is is going to… that y-you’re going to…” Morty babbles for finally saying in a pained begging voice. “Please don’t hurt me, Rick!”

“Morty…”

Rick doesn’t sound exasperated or angry. He sounds patient, kind, and a little sad. Morty breathes a miserable, slightly relieved, sigh. This is the part of the dream where Rick decides Morty's fragility is too much trouble and he isn't going bother with Morty after all.

“This…” Rick caresses a warm hand over Morty’s ass and Morty flinches, “it isn’t supposed to hurt, Morty.”

Morty frowns in confusion.

 _But it always hurts…_ he thinks to himself.  _With Mike, with Mr. Jellybean, with Rick..._

“I know,” Rick continues and at this point Morty isn’t remotely surprised that Rick is responding to his thoughts, “and I… I’m  _so_  sorry, Morty. I’m so sorry it hurt b-be—those other times.”

Rick places an open-mouthed kiss on the centre of Morty’s back, both hands now tenderly cupping Morty’s ass. More kisses follow the first—sending ricochets of pleasure across Morty's skin as Rick kisses his way down Morty’s spine. Morty can swear he can hear Rick whispering words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘mine’ against his skin, but he quickly dismisses such notions.

Then Rick traces a single finger up between Morty’s cheeks and Morty nearly  _yelps_  in surprise. It’s like a bolt: it doesn’t  _hurt_ exactly but since Morty associates the touch with such cruelty, he can’t help but clench.

“Shh…” Rick soothes as he drops his hands onto Morty’s hips, holding him still. “Did that hurt?”

“N-no,” Morty answers honestly. “Just… just a shock.”

“Mmm, th-thought so,” Rick nods. He does it again and even with one hand still tightly gripping Morty’s hip, Morty almost flinches away. Fear claws into his gut, his heart hammers bunny-fast, and the muscles in his legs tense almost painfully.

“S’too much Rick!”

“Shh… _shhh_ … it's okay. Jus-just relax, Morty.”

When Rick traces his fingers over Morty’s ass-crack a third time, he pays special attention to the pucker of Morty’s asshole, his fingers gently stroking it and nudging at it.

To Morty’s surprise, it doesn’t feel so bad. It even feels—Morty dares to admit—kind of…  _good._ As Rick continues, now rubbing just that little bit harder, Morty keens and pushes back into the press of Rick’s finger, hoping for just a little more friction.

“ _Fuck!_ Morty…” Rick hisses from behind him, awe in his tone. He coughs awkwardly and then murmurs kindly, “I’ll sh-show you, Morty. I’ll show you how it does—doesn’t hurt. How it’s meant to feel.”

 _How it’s_ — _?_

_Wait a second!_

When Rick suddenly breaches him, it is all Morty can do not to cry out. If there were a pillow available he'd be biting it, but since Rick relocated his pillow Morty has to settle for sinking his teeth into his own fist and shutting his eyes tight. Rick should be using lube or something, right? But for some reason, Rick’s finger is soft enough that it doesn’t need it. And instead of scraping punishingly inside of him, Rick’s exploring Morty's interior with timid curiosity. As though discovering something impossibly rare. 

“T-Talk to me, Morty. H-how does that feel?”

“Feels… l-little weird,” Morty replies. “It doesn’t hurt yet.”

“It won’t, baby,” Rick reassures him and Morty is surprised by a second finger suddenly entering him.

Again, no lubricant but also no pain. Rick begins thrusting his two fingers in and out of Morty, creating substantial friction against the rim of Morty’s asshole.

It hurts a little, but it isn’t horrible. Though the feeling is undeniably a form of pain, Morty feels satisfied by it. Like Rick’s scratching a hard-to-reach itch.

Morty sighs with pleasure and feels Rick quiver.

“Now,” Rick says, excitement lacing his tone, “let’s see if you can handle…”

A third, longer, finger enters Morty and this time Morty feels a bolt of pleasure surge into his body. And with it, that encroaching sensation from before has returned tenfold: Rick inside his mind, rifling around looking for doors, prying things open and shining his light into the shadowed corners of Morty’s soul.

Morty doesn’t resist this time though. A part of him even  _likes_  the sensation. He moans into the mattress and his body relaxes as he feels Rick _Rick_ **Rick**  seeping through every part of him…

“ _Thaaat’s_   _it_ , Morty,” Rick murmurs his praise, “just... just let me...”

Rick’s fingers are scissoring Morty open, exposing his interior, while that other part of Rick continues to stretch itself through Morty’s mind, and Morty hums pleasantly. His mind giddy with warm satisfaction.

Finally, Rick’s hands withdraw from Morty’s behind and the weirdness of the dream suddenly slams into Morty.

_Wrong. This is wrong._

Morty’s mind slips sideways for a moment and the sensation of his thoughts being invaded and filled with Rick's presence suddenly doesn’t feel so pleasurable.

Rick’s all around him. He’s in the air, in his head, it feels like he's seeping into Morty’s skin… Morty clenches again in both panic and revulsion.

_No. Wrong._

He did not give Rick permission to invade his body  _or_  his mind. This is… this is… it’s…

“Don’t think about it, Morty,” Rick instructs him.

“Rick!” Morty gasps and Rick gently caresses Morty's back.

“Shh…” Rick soothes, “shh, baby…”

But Morty can’t keep still or quiet. Not with Rick controlling his body and mind like this. Rick pulls back once again and this time Morty hears the unmistakeable sound of Rick unbuckling his belt.

Morty’s mouth dries as he hears Rick's fly unzip.

_No!_

But Rick reaches down in between Morty’s legs in order to ghost the tips of his fingers over Morty’s oversensitive balls and Morty grits his teeth and stifles a moan with his fist. The wrongness of the situation drifts back like the tide.

Rick then takes hold of Morty’s hips and this time Morty immediately understands Rick’s silent command and lets Rick carefully guide him onto his hands and knees. His hands fall onto Morty’s ass again, massaging tenderly, and Morty feels Rick dip his thumbs inside of him and gently spread him apart. Morty tenses with shame: the surreal thought of letting this happen. The thought of  _wanting_ it to happen.

 _Oh god,_ Morty realizes.  _I'm about to be fucked by my own grandpa._

“It’s gonna be okay, Morty,” Rick says, “it’ll feel good. I-I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

As much as it kills Morty to admit it, it  _already_  feels good. Rick’s doing things to his mind and body that Morty didn’t think possible.

When Rick realigns himself behind Morty, Morty expects Rick's fingers again. He does  _not_  expect something a hell of a lot bigger to nudge against him. Morty had accepted it would happen but…so  _soon?_ Morty breaks out in an anxious sweat because he doesn’t remember if he heard his grandfather grabbing any lube and while he's never actually  _seen_ it, he's fairly certain Rick is hung. 

But before Morty can even think about flinching away, Rick tightens his grip on Morty’s hips and he leans over Morty's body—his chest sliding against Morty's sweat-slick back—to whisper in his ear.

“You’re not the only one who dreams about this, Morty,” Rick growls and Morty stills. As surreal as this moment feels, Morty is hyper-aware of the all-too-real sensation of Rick prodding at his rim. The head of Rick’s cock is wet, slipping off to the side whenever he pushes a little harder against Morty’s entrance. Actually, everything down there is starting to feel pretty seriously slippery; Rick is leaking precome everywhere, which is warm and surprisingly soothing. "Been dreaming about this for a  _looong_  time."

Morty trembles with unease. Despite how slick everything's become downstairs, a nasty part of him remembers harsh metal fingers, and a hand around his throat, and uncut fingernails scraping and searching and _punishing_ …

But that memory is quickly chased away the more Rick nudges at him. This sensation is new and pleasurable and as nervous as he is, Morty starts longing for more of it. He wants Rick to enter him, to stretch him wide, to reach out to all the injured parts of Morty's unclean soul and soothe them whole again.

Morty’s asshole pulses in time with his aching heart, his inner muscles quiver in earnest. He’s still hard too, but he suspects his throbbing erection will take care of itself once Rick finally gives him what he  ~~wants~~  needs.

“Please…” Morty whimpers.  _“Please,_ Rick! I… I need it.”

He can hear the smirk in Rick’s voice when Rick replies, “Please  _what,_  Morty?”

“Oh fuck!” Morty bursts. His body burns with humiliation and his cheeks flush with shame at the fact Rick is actually going to make him  _beg_  for this. A part of him seriously considers jerking out of Rick’s hands, turning around and  _shoving_ Rick just for being such a cunt about it.

But Rick’s presence is swirling all around him and instead of being imposing and chaotic and cruel, it’s comforting and kind, like a light guiding Morty through the darkness. And there are stray wisps of  _Rick_  already inside him somehow—softly warming him and healing him—which makes it easier to do this. After all, if Rick is already inside Morty on some spiritual existential level, the physical stuff won’t be so difficult will it? And Morty… Morty  _needs_  that next step…

 _But… but he’s my grandpa…_ a stray doubt drips pathetically through Morty’s mind like a fading cloud’s last attempt at rain.

From the sound of Rick’s laboured breathing, it is taking all the willpower he has to restrain himself. He’s tentatively pushing against Morty with thoughtful, assessing slowness.

“P-Please!” Morty sobs. “Take me, Rick!” And then to remove any shadow of a doubt Morty cries out, “Fuck me!”

Rick lets out an obscene groan before he rolls his hips and nudges determinedly at Morty’s rim again. Morty gives a whole-body shudder at the slick sensation of Rick’s head prying him apart, his pucker slowly slipping open with the pressure.

Morty stays still and silent, unable to speak even if he wanted to. He balls his hands into fists and clutches the sheets. 

Rick’s maintaining a low steady pressure, gently widening Morty’s hole and Morty feels his body slowly but certainly opening for Rick. And everything is so perfectly slick down there: wet and good and so  _warm._ With an improperly stifled moan, Morty leans back into the pressure which burns just that tiny bit, just enough to satisfy... 

Before Morty can blink, before he can properly register what he has finally done, Morty feels Rick tighten his hold on his hip and draw him backwards onto his next—this time much more powerful—thrust. The movement sinks Rick deep inside of him and Morty trembles achingly at the sensation of both his body  _and_  mind being thoroughly penetrated.

It shouldn’t feel good. It should feel like an invasion, a violation. But instead, Morty just loves the utter  _fullness_ of the act. Rick is inching further into him with firm, careful, thrusts—taking Morty, possessing him—and Morty can do nothing but gasp and moan: breathless with how wonderful it feels.

But of course, it could never be perfect.

Not even here.

A bitter ugly truth remains somewhere dormant in the back of Morty’s mind: that this does not mean the same thing to Rick as it does to him.

Rick is a man who  _takes_. If Rick wants something, sooner or later he will eventually have it.

And at some point—Morty's not entirely sure when exactly—Rick decided he wanted Morty. But no more than he wanted Unity or the various lovers he brought to the penthouse. No more than he wanted the Yvanke Crystals or the plasma shard in the Abadango Cluster or a new plumbus.

But right now, with Rick filling him up and the rest of the universe so far away, Morty can almost pretend—almost  _imagine_ —that Rick really does care about him. That Rick really does lo—

Rick suddenly collapses over Morty, his right hand slams into the headboard in order to hold himself up. Rick’s chest is against Morty’s back and Morty can hear Rick’s strained breathing against the back of his neck, his heartbeat thundering against Morty's spine. The position is more intimate than before and Morty wants to pretend Rick is shielding him from the outside world, protecting him as though Morty were precious. As though Morty were his and his alone.

It’s not real but… but Morty  _wants…_

He wants so bad his eyes well with tears and it’s all he can do to hastily rub them away with the back of his hand before Rick notices.

A moment later, Rick’s mouth is at the nape of Morty’s neck, biting and sucking deep possessive bruises into his skin.

A bolt of something  _unbearable_  but wholly wonderful shoots through Morty’s body and he lets out a loud moan from deep inside his chest. Despite himself, Morty clenches his ass and is suddenly achingly aware of just how big Rick is, how deep his grandfather has buried himself inside of him and how fucking  _wide_  he’s being stretched. How Morty is handling this without writhing in agony is a mystery that isn’t worth solving, Morty moans again, his hips bucking back in an involuntary motion to bring Rick deeper, deeper,  _deeper…_

“That’s it, Morty.” Rick praises and Morty’s heart soars. “Let… let me in.”

Rick, to Morty’s surprise, eases back, pulling the majority of his length out of Morty. The deepest parts of him ache at the sudden emptiness, but before Morty can protest or attempt to rectify the situation, Rick slams home once more.

Morty feels something inside him fill up so suddenly it is ready to burst. His whole body spasms wildly and he clenches his jaw.

Rick is thrusting in earnest now, driving in and out of Morty’s body with a kind of fervour that leaves Morty winded and unable to hold himself upright. But as Morty’s trembling arm muscles begin to give up, Rick coils his strong arms around Morty’s chest and holds him in place—hugging Morty to him as he continues to use Morty’s body—shoving his cock in and out of Morty’s abused asshole—while Morty moans weakly; his insides clenching and spasming in a desperate attempt to keep himself filled.

Meanwhile, Rick is sinking deeper into the depths of Morty's mind, as though digging for something, searching for all the last shards of Morty that could possibly remain and claiming them as his own. It ought to bother him, and in some ways it does, but Morty’s enjoying the physical sensations in his body too much to give the invading discomfort too much attention.

_What’s that phrase Rick likes to use?_

_Don’t think about it._

_Mmm…that’s the one!_

Then Morty shifts—or Rick shifts—or they both do, and suddenly Rick has slammed into Morty’s prostate and Morty cries out in shock-pleasure. Somehow, Rick has found a magical  _perfect_  angle and his cock is scraping against both Morty’s prostate and a particularly special place deep inside his ass that Morty didn’t know existed until right now.

And… it’s too much.

It’s all just too much.

The pleasure has mounted to a point where it has become unpleasant and just this side of painful. Rick’s presence within him isn't just exploring, it’s cutting into him and ripping him apart. Morty begins writhing in distress and when Rick slams into him again—shooting bolts of the too-powerful sensation through Morty’s body and causing his limbs to spasm wildly—Morty lets out an anguished cry before thrashing desperately in Rick’s grip, his legs are spread wide, Rick's preventing Morty from closing them, and Morty realizes with a sudden wave of shame just how vulnerable and exposed he really is.

“Rick!” Morty wheezes, his body weak. “Rick, please!”

“Be still Morty,” Rick says sternly. "Relax."

Morty lets out a sob as Rick slows. Easing out and then back in once more. Morty’s thigh muscles twitch violently as Rick slides back into him with slick ease and— _oh fuck that feels good!_ —Rick bows his head to whisper against Morty’s cheek.

“Good boy, Morty,” Rick purrs. “Y-You’re doing  _so_  well, baby.”

Morty’s pathetic. He sighs softly. Fucking  _melting_ at the praise. Rick interprets Morty’s suddenly relaxed ass muscles as an opportunity to pick up the pace again.

Moans and whimpers dribble from Morty’s lips as Rick continues to pound into him. Morty moves his hips in subliminal uncoordinated jerks and can’t tell if it’s because he wants more or less of Rick inside of him.

Finally, as if an act of mercy, Rick’s hold on Morty softens. He takes Morty’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turns Morty’s face to the side in order to tenderly kiss him.

Morty's brain sputters.

It’s not what Morty expects at all.

This doesn’t feel like use. This doesn’t feel like sex.

This feels like... what’s that flowery phrase people use?

 

_Making love._

 

That’s right, Rick’s kissing Morty like a  _lover_. Like he loves him. Like he’s  _in love_  with him.

Morty’s heart sings at the sweet illusion. He kisses Rick back enthusiastically and Rick tears his mouth away in order to let out a strained groan.

“Oh fuck— _Morty!"_  Rick rasps as though Morty’s kiss alone has put him on the edge of climax and that sinful thought alone sends Morty over the edge in an instant.

With a surprised cry, Morty’s limbs give up on themselves and if it weren’t for Rick holding him, he’d have slumped over onto the mattress. The orgasm rips through Morty and his muscles twitch wildly as he vocalizes his pleasure. He's never experienced anything like this. The entire universe is burning away before him and all Morty can feel is Rick gloriously inside him and all around him.

When it’s over—Morty’s sheets soaked through—Rick finally lets him go and Morty falls heavily onto the bed. Too weak to move and unable to protest, Morty lies limp on his belly and allows Rick to continue fucking him.

Hours seem to pass before Rick is finally done with him. Ripping himself out of Morty’s ass, Rick comes with an animalistic growl which clips off into a grunt, and Morty feels Rick spilling warm liquid all over his rapidly cooling back.

With a contented sigh, Rick flops down onto the bed next to Morty and Morty turns his face to look at him.

Rick’s skin is shining with sweat, giving the man an ethereal appearance in the soft moonlight. Morty is left speechless. He’s never imagined Rick so…  _beautiful_.

As Rick slowly reclaims his breath he turns his silvery gaze upon Morty and grins broadly. Morty's insides flutter.

“Y’feelin’ okay, Morty?”

Morty gulps. How could someone so perfect even exist? How could someone so perfect want  _him?_

Morty nods stiffly.

“H-hey, c'mon… don’t…don’t look at me like that, Morty. What’s wrong?”

But before Morty can open his mouth to speak, something inside Morty's consciousness seems to slide to the the left and Morty blinks as though waking from a dream and finally takes in his hazy surroundings.

When this encounter began, they were in the hospital weren’t they?

 

So how did they end up in Morty’s bedroom?

 

 

 


	10. The Scream

 

 "I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature."

\-- Edvard Munch on  _The Scream_

 

 

* * *

 

Rick desperately craves a post-coital cigarette. He leans up on his forearm to take a good look at Morty, who is now lying on his side. He’s not especially concerned for the him, but he gives him a quick once-over anyway. The kid won’t be nearly as breakable here in the dreamscape but there’s still room for some psychological damage.

“Y’feelin’ okay, Morty?” Rick asks casually.

Morty’s still wearing that silly little hospital gown, now bunched up around his armpits. It’s kind of cute actually.

Rick sighs contentedly, ignoring the quizzical look on Morty’s face, and runs his fingers through his own sweat-slick hair.

This was necessary. And it felt fantastic.

Morty looks up at him sceptically and Rick frowns. ““Hey… don’t…don’t look at me like that, Morty. What’s wrong?””

“Rick…” Morty murmurs, “I… I thought you said you only visited when I was asleep.”

_Oh. Oh shit._

“Wait…” Morty sits up with a start, seizing the sheets and hastily hiding his nakedness. He turns an alarmed look upon Rick and Rick immediately hears footsteps outside in the hallway.

Morty narrows his eyes accusingly.

“Is this…? Rick, am I… _dreaming?”_ And then Morty’s eyes widen with sudden realization and he stares up at Rick in horror. “No. _No!_ You’re trying to—”

Rick leaps to his feet. He grabs an anaesthetic syringe from his lab coat and jams it into Morty’s IV line.

“Please Rick!” Morty begs. “Please don’t… don’t make me…”

“It’s alright Morty,” Rick slips his hand into Morty’s and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll protect you.”

Morty flops his head back onto the pillow, his eyes drooping. “Please… _Rick…._ ”

“Shh…” Rick soothes, gently caressing Morty’s hair as the boy’s eyes darken and then slowly close. “I’ve come too far, Morty. I’ve come too far to stop now. A-And since…” Rick swallows, “s-since you won’t remember this, I guess it’s only fair I tell you…” Rick kisses Morty’s forehead as Morty’s breaths slow, whispering softly into his hair: “I love you.”

Morty doesn’t respond.

Rick carefully places the earpiece into Morty’s ear.

 _One more layer,_ Rick tells himself. He’s certain of it. _One more layer and I’ll know, and then I can finally_ fix _this!_

Rick doesn’t bother making himself comfortable this time. With Morty now ready, he closes his eyes and takes the plunge…

 

* * *

 

 

Darkness.

 

That’s all there is.

 

Pure, uninterrupted, thick.

It’s a heavy kind of darkness that drains Rick’s energy and seeps, unwelcome, into his skin and throat and mind, rendering his breathing laboured and his thoughts hazy and difficult to process.

Darkness does some very interesting things to the human psyche.

If an ordinary human being is plunged into darkness—that is, _complete_ darkness, with no light sources whatsoever—it does not take long for the average human being to hallucinate: too see things, hear voices, and feel sensations that are not there.

Rick Sanchez is not an ordinary human being.

But this is not ordinary darkness.

Rick lifts his hand in front of his face and finds he can’t see it. He waves it around— _nope,_ nothing. There’s something almost… _moist_ about the darkness. It’s heavy and wet, like breathing mist. Rick swears he can taste steam on his tongue. But it’s freezing cold—like being inside an operating theatre—and Rick shivers. He swears he can hear something dripping…

Rick takes a step forward and while a small part of him initially fears tripping over something in the darkness, more steps reveal there are no obstacles hidden in the gloom.

Rick closes his eyes and sighs audibly only for the shadows to swallow the sound.

He’s reached subconscious bedrock at this point and, to his utmost disappointment, there’s nothing here. No trauma, no buried memories, dreams or even human instincts. Quite literally… _nothing_.

But… but that’s _impossible!_ There must be something here. No one is completely hollow inside.

… _Right?_

Determined to find—fucking hell— _something,_ Rick presses on and finds he has no footsteps in this place. He swallows nervously. It was uncomfortable having such loud footsteps back in the antechamber, but here where the silence is draped over everything, the absence of the familiar sound is more than disquieting and it soon messes with Rick’s perception of time. He could swear he has been here for hours now, walking for miles, yet—even though Rick has not run into walls or barriers of any kind—he still feels as though he’s trapped within a very small room. And that dripping—yes, yes, it’s definitely there—continues relentlessly in the background. It doesn’t grow louder or fainter no matter which way Rick journeys.

Despite the cold, Rick feels himself begin to sweat. He grits his teeth and reaches for a weapon only to feel his heart sink as he realizes with gut-clenching horror that he is still naked.

 _Hm. Anyone else would be panicking right now_ , Rick notes, as he begins to tremble.

Is it just him? Or is the darkness somehow growing thicker? Heavier? _Wetter?_ As though invisible slimy walls are closing in. Rick shrinks back into himself, hiding away from the unseen enemy. The darkness is so thick he can _taste it._

Rick stills.

His muffled mind whirrs gently in amongst the black.

He just…he just needs to _think_ for a moment…

He’s deep inside Morty’s subconscious. In the very depths of the human psyche where the truly repressed memories lie buried. Dormant but not deceased.

Down here, most people would have a vague memory of being breastfed, the tune of a lullaby, and—in some special cases—the pain of being pushed through a damp canal and into the harsh light of existence. It is where the mind is kind: hiding away the things one simply doesn’t need in order to be a functioning human being.

It’s impossible for someone to have _nothing_ here—no one is completely empty— which means there must be _something_. That dripping sound, the coldness, the unwavering feeling of fear… these are parts of something that exists—or did exist—in this seemingly hollow space and that suggests…

Rick raises a shaking hand to his mouth.

…that means there _was_ a memory that was buried down here.

 _The kid’s memory has been tampered with,_ Rick acknowledges, _and it wasn’t by me._

Rick is certain for two reasons: one, he’d damn-well _remember_ blasting the kid with the memory gun—he keeps a log of everything he’s removed, and he keeps his collection of Morty’s Mindblowers in a room in the basement—and two, he’d never do such a fucking hatchetty job of removing said memory.

Morty still remembers the fear, the feeling of claustrophobia, the coldness, the damp, the dark, and the sound of something dripping. There are fragments of memory still left in here which means whoever dug down here before removed the memory in brutal chunks, rather than a nice clean slice.

Rick clenches his fists.

That—Rick knows— _hurts._

Memory-tampering is an extremely delicate procedure that must be performed with absolute precision. The side-effects, when done poorly, can be horrific. Rick can only do it as often as he does because he’s the smartest thing in the universe and has had enough practice that it has become routine. If anything other than him were to do it—well—this mess is the inevitable result.

Rick’s thoughts may be foggy, but his emotions are clear. Hot anger rushes into him and his knuckles whiten.

Some blithering sociopathic fool—likely with an unchecked god complex and a fetish for little boys—violated Morty’s mind in order to ruthlessly cut something out of it. Not only that, they did a crap job and permanently scarred Morty in the process.

Rick, needing brains not feelings right now, wrenches down his fury and looks around. He’s going to need to figure out a way out of this place without losing his mind in the process.

Since his eyes are useless right now, Rick listens carefully.

 

_drip… drip… drip…_

 

Rick waits.

 

_drip... drip… drip…_

 

Even the sound of his own breath is stolen by the shadows. The darkness almost feels alive.

 

_drip… drip…_

Rick continues to listen.

And then he _feels it._

A presence.

A primal instinctual—not just a feeling— a _knowledge_ that he is not alone in the dark. Something is here and watching him. And now, _now_ , unadulterated panic begins to settle in. Rick freezes as fear claws into his tense muscles. He’s naked in the darkness with… _something_. Rick holds his breath and waits.

 

** :: when I find you, I’ll kill your family :: **

The voice is neither male, nor female, and Rick doesn’t so much hear it as _feel it_ rumbling deep inside his bones.

And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, a blood-curdling, shrill—almost inhuman— _scream_ pierces through the darkness.

The scream brings bright white light from above and Rick is suddenly yanked upwards. He hurtles through the hospital/bedroom, up through Morty’s memories, up into the strip club, through the antechamber, and finally he’s flung into consciousness. Rick rips the earpiece out of his ear as though it burns and it clatters across the room, disappearing somewhere beneath Rick’s other belongings.

He’s shaking, drenched in ice-cold sweat, his wild hair flat against his neck and face.

The room spins and Rick wonders if he’ll be sick. His gaze darts around the room without his cognizant permission, scouring every shadow for a potential enemy.

 _Stop._ Rick thinks. _Calm down. It’s just a dream._

Consciously, carefully, Rick evens out his breaths into something resembling calm.

 _Sheezus, where’s Scary Terry when you need him?_ Rick thinks dully.

Rick swallows—punishing his dry throat—and looks up at Morty.

They’ve somehow switched positions during sleep. Morty now lies on his back, gently cradling the elder man’s head against his small chest; while Rick lies face down, his arms wrapped tightly around Morty’s waist.

Miraculously, after all of that, Morty remains asleep.

Rick leans up and, brushing aside Morty’s hair, he gingerly removes the dream-device from Morty’s ear, placing it carefully on the bedside table.

Morty doesn’t move and Rick thinks dully that he is no-doubt witnessing the result of weeks of poor sleep. Rick should have probably invited Morty into his bed much earlier but… how could he?

Rick’s awesome at everything except resisting temptation.

The boy’s breaths come in a slow and steady rhythm; his expression serene. His lack of discomfort is disarming while at the same time reassuring, and Rick realizes, with a shock, that he needs that right now.

Rick’s flask remains empty, but Morty is a better sedative than alcohol. A better pain killer than any pill.

Still wired from the terror of their shared nightmare, Rick cannot bring himself to close his eyes but he lies back down, resting his ear against Morty’s chest and holds him. Morty, as if on cue, rests a comforting hand on the back of Rick’s head—entangling gentle fingers in Rick’s hair—and sighs in his sleep.

_Jeezus, even in his sleep the kid’s altruistic to a fucking fault._

Morty’s heart beats calm and reassuring in Rick’s ear and Rick squeezes him gently, reassuring himself that Morty is okay. He’s here and alive and… and…

His.

Rick tenses as a feeling of possessive greed takes over the initial need to take comfort in the boy’s presence.

Morty stirs and, feeling a little guilty—why? Why should Rick have to feel guilty? He did it all for Morty’s own good, after all!—Rick cautiously permits himself to leave.

He replaces the bedcovers over Morty, carefully tucking him. The kid is still very thin, after all. Rick doesn’t want his body temperature to drop too far. And then silently exits the bedroom in order to sneak into the garage.

The garage is silent and cold. For some reason it is especially isolating in here tonight. Rick normally enjoys the solitude but tonight it has left him raw and aching for human comfort. He could go back to bed, back to Morty, but Rick brushes the notion aside with a wisp of angry pride. He likes to indulge but he doesn’t _need_ Morty.

_(Liar.)_

Still trembling, Rick slumps onto his work stool. Resting his elbows on the bench as he buries his head in his hands.

What a colossal waste of time!

Morty’s mind is an absolute mess. Rick has never seen such chaos. It had never occurred to Rick until tonight that Morty’s problem was never that he didn’t want to remember a past trauma, but that he _couldn’t._

And if Morty’s mind goes into _That Place_ —Rick shudders—every time Rick questions him about it…then…

Well, then it is no wonder the kid flies into a dissociated panic every time Rick tries to investigate the reasons behind Morty’s self-harming.

Morty’s not just a victim of violence or sexual assault, the kid’s the victim of a fucking _botched lobotomy!_

A lightning-bolt shoots through Rick as the realization crystalizes before him.

He can’t question the kid anymore, can’t quest for clues in his mind _or_ his memories. Rick, for the first time, can’t do _anything._

And then something truly bestial hits him: seeping red-hot through Rick’s veins and pulsing from his brain into his fists, clenching angrily around his thudding heart. Rick has never felt anger in such physicality before. His knuckles whiten. His muscles grow taut. The garage falls away and leaves Rick blinded with nothing but boiling white rage.

With a roar, Rick lashes out and throws the latest experiment to the floor with a deafening crash. The second-latest experiment follows, followed by a gallon of Croosalugg bile, his microwave Anthrax, and the Yvanke Crystals from the Denarkl Mountains. Rick’s fist flies out as though it isn’t connected to his mind and connects with a rack of test-tubes. Glass shatters everywhere and liquid swiftly pools upon the garage floor.

Rick slams a mechanical fist onto the workbench, denting it dramatically in the middle.

“MORTYYYY!” Rick cries out in anguish. “Morty wh-what the— WHAT THE FUCK DID THIS TO YOU?!”

He grips his hair in his fists and tugs, roaring into the silent ruined garage. The pain doesn’t _help_ , but it somehow causes Rick’s anger to ebb into despair.

Bent over his ruined workbench, his experiments smashed to bits, Rick whimpers under his breath as silent tears drip down his cheeks. He sinks to his knees and buries his head in his hands, biting mirthlessly down on the inside of his cheek hard enough for the coppery taste of blood to trickle down his throat.

“Wh-whatever you are,” Rick’s vitriolic snarl echoes around the empty garage, “wherever you live, I _will_ _find you.”_ Rick’s lips quiver and curl into a determined scowl. “Mark my words, I will spend the rest of my days hunting you down. And when I find you, _you will rue the day you touched my grandson.”_

With the words aloud, Rick’s anger finally cools.

The garage is hushed. The reverent weighted silence that follows a tragedy.

_Grandson._

Rick remembers the boy’s lithe body writhing beneath him, the way he clenched so tight around him, the glorious mewling sounds he made as Rick finally gave in and _took…_

“He’s my…” Rick swallows, his throat constricting painfully as he forces himself to say the words out loud. “He’s my grandson.”

_(You fucked your own grandson.)_

“Oh _god!”_ Rick whispers.

It may have all happened deep within a dream-of-a-dream, but it still happened. Rick found Morty—afraid and alone—and, like an opportunistic predator, he finally sunk in his teeth.

_It was for his own good!_

_(It was for your own satisfaction.)_

And for _what?_

Morty’s subconscious had been hollowed out by something with even less regard for the kid’s wellbeing than Rick.

Rick stills, shame falling away as he suddenly realizes…

_That’s a clue!_

The trip did not reveal much but now that Rick thinks about it, it has provided at least _some_ data in solving the mystery. Someone broke into Morty’s brain and removed something crucial; but they did a hack-job of it and left sloppy details behind: claustrophobia, something dripping, and they left Morty with a near-compulsive need to hurt himself.

And then there were those terrible words: _“when I find you, I’ll kill your family.”_

That meant, whoever hurt Morty, _knew_ him. Knew him and his family well enough for that to be a genuine threat. Or, at the very least, genuine enough for Morty to believe it.

And if this is a creature that erased Morty’s memory, then Rick is no longer dealing some ordinary person with a sick fetish. Morty’s monster is something from Rick’s world, something off-planet, and that already rules out pretty much everyone on earth.

Rick nods seriously.

…Someone that knows Morty but isn’t from earth.

A conversation, from months earlier, wafts through Rick’s skull:

 _‘Do you… did you also know he’s started cutting himself?’_ Rick had mentioned.

 _‘Psh! You think he only just started?!’_ Summer had snorted, her big blue eyes narrowed in loathing. _‘He’s been doing that since eighth grade.’_

Eighth grade. So… age twelve? Thirteen?

That meant it must have happened during their first season of adventures together. Where did they go back then? Oh _god!_ It wasn't just a long time ago, they went on so many adventures back then that Rick barely remembers them all—it doesn’t help that he was drunk on a couple of them—he still doesn’t entirely remember how those megaseeds ended up in the garage…

It’s not a lot of information to go on, but it’s a _start._ Rick can work from here. He’s clever enough and determined enough to make it happen. He will solve the mystery and get his revenge.

Rick bares his teeth in a mirthless grin, eyes shining anew. He salivates at the thought of slowly ripping apart whatever _dared_ to ruin what is rightfully his.

Something falls over behind him and Rick hears it rolling off the shelf and onto the floor.

Yes, he will have his revenge…

More objects—probably a couple of test tubes—clatter across the concrete somewhere behind him.

…No matter the cost.

Something brushes against Rick’s bicep and, still wired, Rick lashes out with his mechanical arm, hitting whatever touched him as the arm contorts into a laser cannon.

Out of his seat in an instant with his weapon aimed and ready, Rick searches the shadows for his assailant.

Rick hasn’t updated the security system’s whitelist in a while. It’s a _bad_ idea to break into the Smith house.

The blood drains from Rick’s face when he spots a familiar yellow shirt amidst the broken glass.

“Morty?!”

Robot-arm falling heavily to his side, Rick flicks on his workbench light to find Morty curled into a ball, clutching at his face in agony.

Rick skids to Morty’s side and sinks to his knees.

“Oh shit! Oh _shit!”_

Morty doesn’t make a sound as Rick carefully wraps his fingers around Morty’s wrist, gently prying his hands away from his face. Rick hears a hiss of pain and pulls at Morty’s hand more insistently.

“Let me see it, Morty,” Rick demands, his voice is harsher than he intends but thankfully Morty stops resisting lets Rick inspect his face.

Thankfully, the damage isn’t too bad. The kid’s cut his eyebrow and he’s going to have a bruised eye-socket, but all things considered, the damage could have been a lot worse.

“Fuck!” Rick murmurs a curse under his breath as Morty grimaces and continues to press the heel of his hand against his injured face. Rick glares at him, “wh-why’d you have to sneak up on a guy, dummy! D-Don’t you know how lucky you are?! I… I could have fucking blinded you, Morty! Or…or killed you! You know that right? You fucking idiot! _Gawd!”_

Morty gets to his feet and dejectedly picks broken glass and splinters from his skin. Rick feels a small stab of guilt at the sight of his grandson’s forlorn expression.

Then Rick squashes the feeling back down where it belongs because—goddamnit! —Morty should _know better!_

“Rick…” Morty mumbles, spotting the odd twist in Rick’s expression. “Are you okay?”

Oh for fuck’s sake! Rick could _murder_ the stupid little—

“What happened to the garage?” Morty asks, looking nervously around him. “You weren’t in bed I… Aw jeez, I guess I got worried?” Morty confesses in a soft voice. “What happened?”

Rick’s shoulders sink and he breathes out a sigh.

“N-Nothing happened, Morty,” Rick explains. “I just… w-w-one of my projects went a bit… wrong, Morty. That’s all.”

It’s a hell of an understatement.

“Wh-what about you, Morty?” Rick asks. “Y’feelin’ alright?”

“F-Feels a lil’ swollen…” Morty mutters. “I… I might need some ice.”

“N-No, I meant…” Rick frowns. “After…?” Rick makes a vague gesture that neither of them recognize and coughs

“After what?” Morty asks.

Rick shakes his head. “Nev-n-never mind, Morty.” He plasters on a reassuring smile and places his hands tentatively on Morty’s shoulders, silently praying that Morty will allow the platonic touch.

Rick’s smile softens to something more genuine when Morty doesn’t flinch away. The boy trusts him. Even now, even after…

_(Even after you violated him)_

Morty doesn’t remember the dream, that much is obvious. Rick lets out a sigh of relief and Morty raises his cut eyebrow quizzically. Rick brushes his fingers over Morty’s forehead, over the cut, and Morty hisses.

Rick bites back the urge to apologize. After all, the kid brought it upon himself! And it’s not like the cut is any deeper than the ones on his thighs.

 _(_ _Rick_ **RICK** _Rick_ _R_ i _ck_ _ ~~rick~~_ _)_

“ _Morty_ …” Rick says quietly. Even Rick is surprised by the sudden softness of his tone. Morty goes pale with worry and Rick coughs awkwardly. “Morty,” he says in a better, more natural tone, “I… I know y-you’ve been cutting yourself…”

Morty’s eyes widen and he jerks backwards but Rick firms his grip on Morty’s shoulders, holding the boy in place.

“Rick, _please…_ ” Morty begs. “It’s not… it’s not that bad.”

_You lying little fuck!_

Rick shakes his head and looks at Morty sternly. “I know, Morty. And I know I can’t…" Rick's pride aches with the words, "I can’t stop you. B-because be around you 24/7, Morty! So…” Rick lets go of Morty’s shoulders. “Stay.”

Morty does.

Rick goes to a drawer where he keeps his supply of medical equipment and pulls out a scalpel, still packaged securely in its own sealed bag. He looks down at it, hesitating, but ultimately decides there is no other way but this.

At least for now.

 _“This,”_ Rick explains, turning to wave the packaged scalpel in Morty’s face, “is made with a very concentrated, very _rare_ , precious metal that can only be found on a _single_ planet, in _one_ galaxy, in _one_ universe and it has the ability to easily kill bacteria in vitro, Morty.”

Morty’s eyes widen in awe and Rick groans.

“It’s fucking _silver_ , Morty. Jeez pay attention in chemistry class once and a while! Anyway, if you need to cut yourself, I want you to use this. It’s sharp enough to give a good _clean_ wound and the silver will help prevent any infections. I…” Rick coughs awkwardly, “I d-don’t want you getting sick, okay?”

Morty nods respectfully and takes the scalpel from Rick’s hand.

“If you lose it or—” Rick turns his back on Morty, suddenly unable to look at him. “—or if…”

_Or if you use it so much you can’t sterilize it anymore._

“If you need to replace it for any reason, Morty, I… I keep a drawer full of surgical equipment here.”

Rick opens the drawer for Morty to see.

“I’ll keep it well-stocked. Just in case.”

Rick slams the drawer shut and slaps his palms on the workbench. He can’t look at Morty right now, so he just stares intently at the sticky fluid-coated surface.

“Just so we’re clear, _Morty,_ th-this isn’t… this isn’t me _advocating_ what you’re doing to yourself. But I need to…” Rick desperately searches for the words. “I need to know you’re at least doing it _hygienically._ All-alright? So… s-so do me a favour, you little turd, and use these. _Only_ these. Got that?”

Silence.

 _Oh fuck,_ Rick thinks miserably. _Please God, don’t make me look at him._

“…Yeah. Okay Rick.”

Rick huffs out a loud sigh of relief. The garage is quiet once more, but it isn’t the raw isolated silence Rick endured earlier in the night. This silence feels amicable and almost warm. Morty’s presence, Rick realizes, has always had that effect. His hands are steady and his mood is softer when the boy is sitting perched on his workbench,

“Rick!” Morty suddenly bursts out.

Rick whirls around in order to see Morty picking up a calendar which had been ripped from the wall—along with Rick’s vast selection of blueprints—and point at it enthusiastically.

“Rick!” Morty’s face has broken out into a brilliant smile that lights up the room. “Look, Rick! Did you know? I-It’s your birthday!”

 

 

 


	11. The Second Coming

**Beth**

_"He will take, he will give nothing, but he'll take"_

—Kansas, 'The Devil Game'

 

* * *

 

 

**~ 2009 ~**

 

The Gruzellerot was  _huuuge!_ _"_ Beth says dramatically, widening her eyes to add to the effect. "Because, as you both know, the Flemflarp people had been worshipping it for generations. And the angrier it got, the _bigger_ it got! It was the size if a car, then it was the size of a house, then—before anyone could so much as  _blink_ —it iwas the size of a skyscraper!"

Morty gasps.

"The Gruzellerot was unleashed! Slamming its enormous fists into the Gorflorckian Temple. Killing everyone inside! But the enemy was undeterred! They kept charging in like a relentless force of _nature!_ But  _then,_ just then it all looked hopeless—just when it looked as though both sides would rip the world apart—guess who showed up?"

"Who?" Morty breathes.

"Uh, it was obviously Grandpa Rick?" Summer says, rolling her eyes.

"That's right, Summer," says Beth, undeterred by her daughter's recently developed cynicism. "With a clap of thunder, he descended from those swirling red storm clouds right into the middle of the battlefield. And where both armies would have met, your Grandpa stood, and both those armies backed down in an instant."

"Wh-why did they back down?" asks Morty.

Beth grins.

"Because they were _scared,_ Morty!" Summer snorts.

"No, Summer," Beth shakes her head. "Because they were _smart._ "

Both children exhale at Beth's words and she stufles the urge to chuckle. When the story finally ends, she tucks in her seven-year-old son and leaves the room with her daughter. 

As Beth turns out the light, a small voice calls out: "Mom?"

"Don't worry, Morty, I'm leaving the hall light on."

"N-no..." Morty stammers. "I... I just want to know... are they real? The stories, I mean. Is my Grandpa really a great space hero?"

"Oh my _gawd!_ _"_ Summer snorts with laughter. "It's called science _fiction,_ Mor—"

Beth gives her young daughter a stern look and Summer quiets.

"Of course he is, Morty," Beth says lovingly. "The greatest."

 

 

**~ Now ~**

 

In the early hours of the morning, where monsters still dwell and secrets are whispered, Beth awakes.

Ever since she was a little girl, she couldn't sleep unless the room was pitch black. And tonight, unfortunately, her phone charger has decided to play up and illuminate the room with an irritating blue glow.

She rises, groggy, but not hungover tonight. She decided when she went to bed that a glass of red wasn't going to happen tonight, not if she wanted to get up early and make a birthday breakfast for her father.

Beth runs a hand through her bed-messy hair. 

She knows she shouldn't, not after the awful discovery that now hides beneath her bed. But she will because...

Because...

Because it's  _normal_. Yes, that's it. It's because it is the nice, safe, normal thing to do and it won't arouse any suspicion from Rick. Rick doesn't know she knows yet, which means Beth holds all the cards, and Rick  _won't know_ unless he goes searching for the special box she stole.

If he wants it back, he'll have to confess.

Until then, Beth's going to pretend...

"Everything is _fine,_ " she whispers determinedly, nudging her feet into her pink slippers and unplugging her phone charger from the wall socket.

Everything's fine. Everything's okay. She's going to keep ploughing through life until she can figure out a strategic trap for her father. It's the  _smart_ thing to do, Beth decides as she makes her way downstairs and into the kitchen.

She drinks just a small glass of wine. Just enough to stop her hands from shaking and to warm her up on a chilly morning. It is still way too early, Beth knows that, but she needs this.

The sun rises and Beth cooks. Waffles, bacon, peach and apple pie—homemade, none of that store-bought crap—sourdough, buttermilk pancakes—Beth even heats up the syrup—and delicate slices of fresh fruit. Bananas are in season. Maybe Beth could whip out the Magic Bullet and—

"Mom?" Summer frowns, rubbing her eyes and pulling on a cardigan as she shuffles into the kitchen. "Woah, what is all this?"

"It's your Grandpa's birthday, Summer," Beth smiles too broadly. "I thought I'd make him something special."

"Um..." Summer frowns, "are you inviting the _town?"_

Beth looks around at her handiwork.

"I wanted to hedge my bets a little," she shrugs, "you know how Rick gets."

"Uh, yeah, he gets _hungry,_ Mom, not—y'know— _terrifyingly ravenous,_ " Summer snorts. "Still...smells good. Pretty sure Morty and I can help get rid of some of the excess."

"We'll all pitch in," Beth grins. "I'm going to go take a quick shower before he gets up. Is your brother still asleep?"

"Hm?" Summer looks up from busying herself at the coffee machine, "well, I assumed he was down here with you. His bedroom's been empty for a while."

"Oh." Beth's voice cracks a little.

"Mm, yeah, bedroom door's wide-open. Either he's ganging out down here or he and Grandpa Rick are on an adventure somewhere," Summer shrugs.

"I see. Well—um—" Beth says in a monotone. "All...alright then. I'm just gonna..."

With that last awkward word, Beth leaves the kitchen and heads up the stairs at a brisk pace.

_They're not. He's not. He wouldn't!_

_(Stupid little girl. What else would he want for his birthday?)_

But Beth stops dead when she suddenly finds herself face-to-face with Rick, Morty, and the horror of reality.

They emerge from Rick's bedroom just as Beth reaches the top of the stairs. Both look tired and slightly unkempt but Morty is quivering slightly, drawing Beth's attention even though she tries not to look. Rick, meanwhile, with the dark rings beneath his eyes looks as though he hasn't slept a wink. 

 _Fucking hell!_ Beth thinks with cold despair.  _He isn't even trying to hide it!_

"Y-You need to head to the kitchen, Morty. Get some ice on—Oh!" Rick suddenly spots Beth and smiles broadly. "Good—uh—g-good morning, sweetie! I didn't...um...h-how long have you been standing there?"

Strange.

It doesn't hurt. 

Beth thought it would. She thought she would feel outraged, disgusted, horrified, or ill. Hell. She thought she would at least feel  _something._ But instead, Beth just looks up at her wonderful hyperintelligent father and feels...

Nothing.

 She needs to look at Morty. If she looks at her son, she'll feel it: that primal hot-blooded instinct that is maternal anger and then she'll know she isn't some soulless Beth Smith Clone; she's the real thing and she is ready to pull together all sociopathic urges in order to fight for her child. 

...Which is the exact reason Beth doesn't. 

"M-Morning, Mom!" Morty tries nervously.

"Morning Morty," Beth says with a tight smile, her eyes fixed upon Rick.

Keep it normal. Keep it safe. Keep it together.

There is a nasty pause where the air grows thick and a hideous expression flits across Rick's face. It is only for a fraction of a second, enough for Beth to wonder if she imagined it, but Beth's seen the look before and recognizes it for what it is.

For just a moment, just a tiny, fleeting moment, Beth is sure Rick considered killing her.

But Rick's expression quickly shifts into something warm and reassuring and Rick smiles.

"What smells so good?" Rick asks jovially. "Hope it's not what I think it is, Beth."

"I couldn't help myself," Beth giggles, "and  _yes,_ I remembered!"

They walk side-by-side into the kitchen, chatting, laughing, and it feels so natural that Beth almost believes it is real. 

"Wasn't it you who always reminded me when it was your mother's birthday, Beth?" Rick asks. "Or was it the postman?"

"We always claimed it was the newspaper," Beth grins as she gets her father seated in the dining room. 

Summer joins them a moment later, setting down her second cup of coffee in order to wrap her arms tightly around her grandfather.

Beth's smile dies a little.

"Happy birthday, Grandpa Rick!"

"So today," Beth says hastily, "I was thinking we could all—"

"Oh I...I'm gonna have to stop you there, Beth," Rick cuts her off, sitting himself down and helping himself to the gargantuan stack of pancakes in the middle of the table. "M-Morty and I h-have plans for today."

"We do?" 

Beth's insides grow cold and she finally steals a glance at her son.

Her mouth drops open.

Morty is a mess: hair a birds' nest of dishevelled curls sticking up in every direction, his pyjamas wrinkled with the buttons done up the wrong way, and he looks beyond exhausted. But all of that is  _nothing_ compared to the tell-tale injury splotched over the one side of his face.

Rick did it.

Beth knows it. She knows it in her marrow.

And, like a cruel montage playing in her mind, Beth runs through the other signs she has missed over the years: Morty arriving home from an adventure shell-shocked and pale, Morty looking so thin and sick, Morty sporting scratches or bite marks, Morty with bruises on his neck that resembled fingermarks, as though he had been strangled... 

_Oh god!_

And the time Rick said: "I've been inside a kid all day," and Beth dismissed it as pretty much anything but the obvious. Because, let's face it, living is easy with eyes wide shut...

Morty shuffles uncomfortably in his seat and Beth realizes she is staring.

"Beth."

Beth's gaze flicks back to her father who is looking at her carefully, as though analyzing her. Beth has a seriously uneasy feeling she is being x-rayed and knowing her father's wide array of miscellaneous augments, that may even be a possibility.

 _Oh god!_ Beth suddenly thinks with alarm.  _Dad can't read minds, can he?_

"Yeh- _ehrp_ -Yeah, Morty, yeah! Remember Morty?" Rick turns his gaze to the boy at his side. "I need your help on an adventure. Well,  _need_ is a bit generous... I need a door stop, b-but a brick would work too."

"Holy crap! You guys are going to the new Ball Fondlers movie!" Summer breathes, perceptive as ever. "Seriously?"

Rick and Morty both stare at Summer in disbelief.

"Uh, heh, yeh-yeah..." Morty replies nervously.

"I am so there!" Summer grins.

"Oh jeez, Summer, Sum-Sum..." Rick says in fake-disappointment, "I already bought the tickets and I only purchased _two._ I'm  _so_ sorry!"

"Oh so I'm not invited?" Summer sounds genuinely disappointed.

Beth's insides clench painfully.

"No. No, it's not that Summer, it's just... um..."

"We didn't know you were into Ball Fondlers," Rick shrugs. 

"Yeah!" Morty continues. "And we thought—y'know—might be... m-might be good to just have a _guys'_ night? Y'know? Just...just guys?"

"You two are so obviously up to something," Summer says smugly.

"You... wh-why would you y-you say something like that?" Morty stammers.

"Yeah, we're _totally_ up to something," Rick rolls his eyes as he shoves another forkful of syrup-drenched pancake into his mouth. "Like taking on the intergalactic government or revisiting Morty's part-human-part-Gazorpazorpian son— _ooh!_ — or... or how about the time we snuck off to Atlantis because, fuck it, why the fuck not?" Rick waves his fork around in the air haughtily. "W-we're always fucking _up to something_ , Summer. Sheesh. Get used to it."

"Alright! Fine! Jeez..." Summer huffs. "I was just saying, you two are acting shifty."

"Yeah well, that's probably just Morty's autism and my Alcohol Deficiency Disorder," Rick says flatly.

"Alcohol Deficiency—?"

But Beth doesn't hear the rest. She quickly departs into the kitchen and stands by the sink for a few painful minutes.

The tyre swing hangs from its tree like an empty noose. 

In another life, Beth might only have Summer and not Morty. In another life, Beth might  _be_ happy instead of act happy.

In another life Beth's father stays for _her_ and not the helpless little creature that slithered out of her over seventeen years ago.

Turning away in shame, Beth grabs a box wine and shakily collects a glass from the shelf above the sink. She pours it—her trembling hands sharing most of it with the kitchen bench and the tiles below—and then gulps from the glass like there's no tomorrow.

She can be happy. She can totally be happy. She just needs to relax...

"Sweetie?"

"Dad!" Beth exclaims, the glass slips through her fingers and shatters at her feet. "Shit. Wh-what are you doing in here?" Beth drops to her knees to pick up the pieces.

"Heh. I could ask you the same thing," Rick states matter-of-factly, tearing a paper towel off the roll and crouching down with her. "L-Listen, Beth. About that... th-that black eye Morty has this morning..."

Rick explains himself and Beth listens dumbly to to the lie that may have enough truth in it to be believable. She delicately places the broken glass in her open palm, carefully avoiding cutting herself as Rick's voice soothes her frazzled mind, and they both clean up the mess Beth made.

"So, yeah, it was— _cokh!—_ it was an accident," Rick coughs, authentic remorse flavouring his tone. "But—y'know—he's _your_ son, Beth. And if y-y-you don't want me to take him out today then that's... that's totally understandable and I respect that."

They rise together, Rick looking caringly down at her with a reassuring smile.

Beth looks up into those wise blue eyes, that kind face, the way the lines in his temples crinkle slightly when he looks at her and she thinks, placidly, maybe she's got it all wrong.

After all, Rick is a complicated man and he has changed so much recently. He has tried so hard to be a good father-figure to Summer in Jerry's absence. He even bought her a car—or was it a space ship? Oh who cares! It made Summer happy and that's what matters—and he has been so patient with the Beth during the divorce. 

He's a good father. A good grandfather. And if he wants to spend the day with Morty then...

"Oh, no, Dad!" Beth's laugh is genuine and she shakes her head. "No, it's my fault for letting my parent-anxiety get the best of me. You know how it is."

"Absol _utely!"_ Rick nods in agreement. "Can-can't tell you how often I worried about  _you!"_

"Really?"

"Ohhf— _ehhhrrp—_ of  _course!_ You're my daughter, Beth."

Beth beams.

"You and Morty have fun at your— _uhh_ —testicle movie. I was sort of thinking about surprising Summer with an impromptu spa day today anyway." Beth lies happily. "She got all Bs during her last exam period so..." Beth trails off with a shrug and a grin and Rick gives her a friendly nod before swiftly leaving the kichen in favour of the dining room.

"Hey Morty!" she hears him call out as she turns back to look outside. "Get your ass dressed and ready..."

 

It hurts.

 

Like leaping into an ice-cold ocean, every wave hitting her without mercy. Beth shudders.

He just did it again, didn't he?

He made her feel special, made her feel like his daughter. And she acted the part and did exactly what Daddy wanted.

The damning evidence of Rick's sick crime is still in her room: a monster that lies in wait beneath a little girl's bed. But in the soft light of the morning, Beth forgot about it in order to indulge herself.

Beth's trembling. She's disgusted with herself. Disgusted with her father. Disgusted with the  _universe!_

Outside, an unseasonably harsh wind blows the tyre swing back and forth, as though a little ghost child were playing on it.

Beth narrows her eyes at it.

Whipping out her phone, she pulls up Jerry's phone number.

 

* * *

 

 

Rick stands in line at the concession stand with Morty at his side, a wide grin spread almost permanently on the boy's face has almost—though not quite—melted Rick's poor mood. 

Beth almost caught him.

She walked right up to them, right as they were leaving the bedroom, and looked Rick right in the eye.

It looked  _objectively_ bad—both of them all rumpled and bleary-eyed from a cramped night shared on the cot—and with Morty's face, anyone with half a brain would assume Rick spent the night ruthlessly fucking him. And while that was not  _technically_ correct, it also wasn't far enough from the truth to be called a false accusation.

Rick saw, for just a moment, Beth's face contort into an awful expression of apt maternal rage. A silent demand:  _What the fuck have you done?_

And Rick had been ready for it. When the inevitable accusations finally came, he would wordlessly take his grandson by the hand and jump ship. They'd be halfway to anywhere before Beth could even consider keeping Morty from him.

But then that expression disappeared and Rick realized with a clenched feeling in his chest that his daughter wasn't even looking at her ruined son.

Morty has a fucking  _black eye._ The last time Beth saw her son beaten like that, she freaked.

Rick can recall as vividly as if it were yesterday, the way his daughter had waited all night for him to return with Morty. How animated she was when she saw them. He remembers her sitting there—her cheeks shining with fresh tears—wrapped in her fluffy pink dressing gown, her face forced-calm as she fought the urge to panic: worrying herself insane over the son she didn't realize her father was slowly destroying...

And that's the difference isn't it?

Her son is being abused and Beth is willing to let it happen. All because he's being abused by  _Rick._

Rick observes his daughter with barely-hidden revulsion as she spends the morning avoiding eye-contact with Morty.

The fretful hand-wringing mother in the pink dressing gown was not Beth, it was a role Beth played—and played well—in an attempt at normalcy and predictability. A role she is not willing to play if the villain is played by Rick. 

Rick scoffs. She's as bad as her mother...

Rick's mood shifts slightly when Beth finally does look at Morty at the breakfast table. Of course, she stares. 

Morty's been through hell. Rick has now seen that first-hand. Even if the result were exile, with everything he has endured, the boy deserves to have someone fight for him. Rick braces himself for the onslaught...

But Beth says nothing. She goes right on staring, her mouth agape, and Rick follows his daughters gaze and understands. In his dim windowless room, Rick hadn't seen the damage, but now that they're in the light...

The bruises— _fuck,_ he still bruises so easily—the way his clothes are suggestively wrinkled, his swollen bottom lip that Rick must have sucked too hard, his hideously injured face—Rick must have hit him harder than he initially realized... 

His haunted expression doesn't exactly fill Rick with confidence either.

He places a concerned hand on Morty's leg and Morty doesn't react, still looking blankly at the plate of food placed on the table before him. 

Looks like the kid's not quite over his old hang-ups. No matter, Rick can get him over that hurdle with some hard drugs and a bit of coaxing. 

Rick gives Morty's thigh a reassuring squeeze and Morty jumps. Realizing his mother is staring at him, Morty shuffles uneasily in his seat and looks shamefully away. Rick glares.

"Beth."

 _You're scaring him!_ Rick thinks angrily before shooting a worried  _Are you okay?_ look at Morty.

Thankfully, the kid brightened up once it was confirmed they'd be going to the new Ball Fondlers film today. Rick had them through the portal as soon as he and Morty were both showered and dressed. He had even swindled Beth into granting him permission—hell!—she practically gave them her _blessing._  

Rick smiles nastily.

He wishes his family wouldn't consistently disappoint him.

"Popcorn? Coke?" Rick smirks at Morty who is bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet. "Oh hey! H-hey, Morty! Caramel Matesers, Morty!" Rick says excitedly.

Morty makes a face. "C-can I have... m-maybe a small—"

"Redbull-cola. Make it an extra large."

"Rick!"

"What? Too many calories?" Rick raises one side of his eyebrow at the boy whose cheeks have flushed crimson. "You promised me you wouldn't fall asleep this time _Morty!_ _"_ Rick grins broadly. "I-I'm just buying us some insurance."

Morty pouts but doesn't protest. He is going to have to remain awake for longer than the movie, of course. Rick has a whole day planned: a double Ball-Fondlers feature followed by a trip to Golden Saucer—a towering amusement park over the decaying ruins of the old society—then they're heading back to Atlantis to catch the Limp Noodles in concert, and then—if Rick has timed it correctly—they'll finish the day on top of Nyx Mountain.

Rick grins to himself.

It might be his birthday but today he is going to spoil the kid rotten.

 

* * *

 

**Beth and Jerry**

  _Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_  
_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
__The ceremony of innocence is drowned._  

— 'The Second Coming,' W.B Yeats

 

* * *

 

 

"Oh god, oh god, oh god."

Beth is babbling. Her fists clenched against her forehead as she stares down at the cappuccino she ordered but does not touch. Jerry watches her with placid fascination. 

He thought he would relish the moment when all Beth's delusions came crashing down but instead his natural empathy has kicked in and kicked in hard. All Jerry can do now is wish it didn't have to hurt her so much. He reaches out to take Beth's hand but quickly withdraws instead. She won't want him to touch her. Not now. Maybe not ever...

"Jerry..." Beth looks up at him tearfully. "Let's...let's say you're right ah-about eh-everything..." she sobs, "wh-what on earth can either of us realistically _do?_ My father is—I mean—once he gets an idea in his head..."

"As much as I hate to admit it," Jerry nods in resignation, stirring more sugar into his already oversweet latte, "I don't think alerting child protective services is exactly an option."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to _do?"_ Beth wails loudly.

People around the diner turn their curious heads to look her. Jerry shoots them a glare and they quickly turn their attention back to their food.

He is—admittedly—triumphant. It's awful and selfish as hell, but there's no way Beth can ever defend something like this. No way Beth can steer this to her father's credit in any way. And Jerry, for the first time in so long, finally gets to be her salvation amidst the chaos. Her rock. Her saviour. After all, he has always seen Rick for what he is. It was a mystery someone as smart as Beth couldn't see it too.

"Beth..." Jerry begins. "I..."

A loud bang interrupts them. It could have been dismissed as a car backfiring if it weren't for the subsequent unmistakable sound of gunfire. Beth's face changes from hysterical to immediately confident as she sits upright in her seat. 

Even now, Beth is great in a crisis. It is as though she was born to fight.

Jerry holds his hands up in surrender before quickly slinking beneath the table. He grabs Beth's hand—currently clenched into a fist—and pulls her down with him. 

"What was that?" Jerry asks fearfully.

"I've no idea!" Beth answers, looking around nervously. A scream rings out and a man runs past only to be immediately shot to pieces by a hail of bullets.

"Let's just stay low," Jerry whispers, shrinking back.

"No, we should call my Dad."

"WHAT?!" Jerry fumes.

"Keep it down!" Beth hisses back.

"You would honestly call your father after everything we've just talked about?" Jerry snarls. "I cannot _believe_ you, Beth! Why don't we just wrap up our son with a bow and _give_ him to Rick?!"

"Don't start that crap!" Beth snaps. "I'm not...  _denying_ anything. It's just... he's good at this kind of thing and we need him."

A group consisting of both humans and bipedal insects rush past carrying machine guns and Beth turns a haughty  _told-you-so_ look upon Jerry.  _"Still_ think I shouldn't call my Dad?"

Jerry folds his arms. "I still say it could be an ISIS attack."

"Where are the Smiths?"

"That _still_ doesn't prove—"

"They're here." An insect-creature replies. "Search the place. Tango Papa, have you tracked down Sanchez—"

"Alright, _fine,_ call your Dad..." Jerry rolls his eyes.

But before Beth can pull out her phone an insectoid hand wraps around her arm and yanks her out from under the table. 

With a sudden surge of brave stupidity, Jerry leaps to his feet. "Get your filthy insect hands off my wife!"

He punches the insect-creature only for a human to suddenly to leap forward and knee him in the groin. Jerry drops to his knees, barely stifling the urge to vomit.

Bath stares desperately at Jerry, she opens her mouth to speak only for the world to suddenly to dark as a black bag is suddenly yanked over her face.

"Alpha. This is Echo Squad Leader, we've retrieved both Beth and Jerry Smith, status report?"

"Summer Smith has been detained," she hears a gravelly voice respond through the fuzz of a faulty radio connection, "retrieving Sanchez and Morty Smith now."

"No!" Beth kicks wildly. 

These creatures made a big mistake,

Beth is  _smart._ And even if she isn't her father, she can still think rings around the soldier holding her.

And now these fools have inadvertently informed her that her first-born is in danger.

Her arms are being held tightly behind her back and her face is covered, but her head is still mobile and her legs are free. Whoever is holding onto her isn't doing so particularly roughly, they're concentrating on steering her and not on what she's doing—perhaps their orders are to kidnap her and Jerry but not harm them—and if  _that's_ the case...

Something hits Beth's shin. It feels like the side of a metal surface—like a step. And the fact she hit it so softly is the most Beth can hope for to confirm her suspicions.

Beth steps up and then immediately drops her weight into her lower body, causing whoever is holding her to lose their grip in surprise.

It's the exact reaction Beth hoped for.

Unable to see, Beth throws herself backwards and bowls into the person holding her. They both stumble backwards and land in a heap on the pavement. They should have bound her hands, Beth smiles, because she immediately grabs the black bag from her head and throws it aside. She looks down and is pleasantly surprised to find she was being held by a human man.

 _Perfect!_ Beth knows human weaknesses inside and out. She did, after all, attend medical school. Pitting a human against her is just cruel.

Her eyes catch the glint of a knife at his belt and she immediately snatches it. Holding the blade to his throat, she hauls the man to his feet and turns to face the rest of her kidnappers. 

There are an awful lot of them. It's almost flattering.

"Let my husband go!" Beth shouts. "This man's life means more to you lot than it does to me."

The soldiers hesitate before one of them shouts, "she won't do it!"

"Incorrect," Beth replies with a snarl. She drives the knife into the soldier's jugular and smiles at the shocked gasps she receives for the demonstration.

"Dumb bitch, you just threw away your only leverage!" one of the insect creatures shouts before he pounces on Beth.

Beth fights. She throws a punch—which is weaker than she would have liked, damn, she needs to work out more—she dodges a swing, cuts the insect-man's face and causes him to fall to the ground. He lands with the side of his face against the gutter. Beth stomps on his head, sending a spurt of alien-coloured blood across the pavement.

The soldier whose mind is now literally in the gutter had a much nicer weapon: a machine gun.

Beth grins.

"Doing okay, honey?" she calls out to Jerry.

"Beth? What's going on?" Jerry shouts back, voice muffled by the black bag still covering his face.

Beth stands before the insectoid soldier gripping her husband.

"You are going to let go of him. Now."

The insect creature pulls a knife from its utility belt and holds it to the black back, around where Beth knows Jerry's throat is located.

Her blood chills but she keeps her expression calm. A skill she is now very well-practiced in.

"To quote a fool," the creature says softly, "this man's life means more to you than it does to me."

"No don't kill me!" Jerry suddenly cries. "I...I think I'm starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome— _uhh_ —h-handsome?"

Beth hesitates.

And that's all it takes.

Someone hits her from behind and someone else jabs her with what feels alarmingly like a cattle-prod. Beth falls to her knees with a shriek.

"Jerry..." she whimpers before everything goes black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Huh."

"Hm?"

"That's weird."

"Wh-what d'you mean?"

"Just... sh-shouldn't the first...the first trailers have started by now? Y'know? Like, I feel like we've been waiting a long time." 

"You're right, Morty," Rick frowns. "Jeez, what do you think's taking so long?"

"Maybe the projector's broken?" Morty suggests, balancing his extra large redbull and coke mix on his lap. The cup is massive, he has to hold it with both hands, and Rick can't help smiling at how adorable that is. 

"I don't think so, we would have been told something by now if that were the case."

"Then what—?"

"I dunno, Morty, jeez..." Rick replies crossly.

"Hey Rick?"

"What?"

"Um... isn't this movie supposed to be—I dunno—a _big deal?"_ Morty asks. "Like, Endgame and the Return of the King combined?"

"Wh-where are you going with this, Morty?"

"Well... th-then why are we the only people in the theatre?"

Rick stands and turns.

It's a mistake. 

At least a dozen guns are suddenly pointed at him. He freezes and slowly raises his hands before someone quickly forces his wrists together behind his back, the recognizable feeling of handcuffs quickly snapping shut around them.

"Great." Rick groans. "A fan club."

"Get his weapons. All of them!"

Rick glares as some poor Gromflamite lackey opens his lab coat and starts pulling things out of each pocket.

"Yeah..." Rick says coolly. "You're clearly an intern. No one else wants that job."

The lackey doesn't say a thing as Rick smirks. 

"Y-You want me to bend over now or y'wanna buy me dinner first?"

The lackey ignores him and Rick grins. 

"Oh dear, you... uh... might not wanna touch that. That's toxic to anything with an exoskeleton and a working brain. Oh-ho-ho wait! You'll be  _fiiine!"_ Rick cackles. 

"Make sure he's completely disarmed!"

"That's never gonna happen," Rick states matter-of-factly.

"He's the smartest thing in the universe. You're gonna need to strip him!"

"Ohhh baby, and don't forget to work the— _brhhrrp—_ sh _ah_ ft!"

"What the fuck?" the closest Gromflamite glares at him before exchanging glances with one of its comrades.

"Oh _I'm_ sorry!" Rick laughs. "It's just that you all come in here, interrupt me and my grandson while we're trying to see Ball Fondlers in peace, and then you start jerking me off like I'm your drunk step dad or something. I mean... jeezus—fuck—christ. Y-you could at least've put the cuffs on right. I'm into S&M but _real_ S&M, kay guys? N-n-not-none of this peh-pink fluffy cuffs bullshit."

"What the hell is he talking about?"

"This."

Rick quickly slips out of the cuffs and—elbowing the poor lackey in the face—seizes the homemade laser pistol still gripped in the creature's front feelers.

"Be a sport," Rick snarls at the Gromflamite General, "and grab Daddy another beer."

"FIRE!"

"Morty down! Now!"

The bullets rain and Rick leaps on top of the nearest cinema seat. In the time it takes for the guns to point up at him, Rick has already shot three Gromflamites and wounded two. The guns are automatic, which was a stupid decision, they're going to run out of bullets long before Rick is taken out. 

Rick cartwheels past the last of the firing squad and punches Gromflamite general in the face, disarming the creature, before firing both his laser pistol and the automatic rifle at two more oncoming soldiers. He hears a click behind him and smiles. 

"Sounds like you're all out of bullets."

He spins on the spot and unloads the automatic rifle into the creature's chest.

"Now— _ehhrrrp—_ n _OH_ w you're full of 'em," Rick says in a bored tone, tossing the rifle aside. To his surprise, the creature rises unharmed.

"Epidermal shields, bitch." The soldier says smugly.

Rick shrugs and fires his laser pistol between the creature's eyes. "Lasers, _bitch._ Morty, are y—"

But Rick is suddenly cut off with his own scream. His hand is on  _fire!_ At least, it fucking feels that way. He glances down and realizes he's been shot. His hand is a mangled bloody mess. Some asshole actually managed to get a shot in! Damn... and it was the hand that held his gun too.

No matter.

Disarmed but not outdone, Rick whirls around to face the idiot. His intellect and his anger—the only true weapons he needs—focus like a laser-beam on who would  _dare._

It's the lackey from before. If Rick had a sliver of empathy, he almost feels sorry for the creature. As his furious gaze meets the eyes of his attacker, the creature's eyes narrow and he bends his knees, readying himself to spring...

Rick smiles.

The young Gromflamite has balls. Rick's got to give him props even if he's going to kill him in a minute.

But then the young soldier's eyes suddenly rip away from Rick before widening in alarm.

Rick's used to people faltering when they realize just  _who_ they are messing with, but soldiers usually push past the instinct to cower or run—or at least they  _should—_ so Rick's own willingness to fight suddenly falters with the Gromflamite's. 

But Rick's confusion is short-lived when a flash of yellow blurs past his vision and slams into the soldier with a force that would break a bone. 

He's fast— _fuck!_ —when did Morty get that fast? He's so quick the soldier has had no time to reach for his weapon. 

Rick is about to yell, to warn Morty about the epidermal shields, but suddenly spots the previously-glowing nob on the soldier's armour has cracked down the middle. Morty's foot must have collided with it upon impact.

Speed  _and_ accuracy. 

Rick lets out a low whistle. Well then...

But the kid lacks grace. After kicking the soldier down, Morty sits straddled on top of him, punching him over and over while the floor is painted with dark blood. A tooth flies out of the creature's mouth and Rick grimaces.

"Uh...Morty...?"

Morty's not listening.

Rick coughs. "Morty...?"

"Y-You like this? You like this you—y-you s-son-of-a-bitch? You like interrupting people while they're trying to enjoy a movie? Open your chips _before_ the movie starts, asswipe!"

Rick blinks in confusion.  _Open your— huh?_

"Y-You can't wait until the end to check Facebook? You like annoying people, huh? You like standing in the driveway trying to guilt your kids into spending time with you? You like drinking yourself into oblivion so you don't have to face the miserable reality you built for yourself? Y-y-y-you selfish, narcissistic  _bitch!"_

"Uh, Morty, I... I think he already lost consciousness..."

But Morty continues his tirade and Rick eventually heaves a sigh. He strides over to the shouting child and places a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Morty, come on."

Morty jerks his shoulder away before turning a fierce glare upon Rick. "What the fuck do _you_ want?" he spits.

Rick flinches.

"Jeez, Morty, he's a soldier, not a politician. Give him some... s-some dignity, hey?"

Morty's eyes narrow. "He signed away his dignity when he got in our way!"

Solemnly, with regret weighing heavily on his heart, Rick holds out a blood-drenched hand, which Morty thankfully accepts. Even though it hurts like hell, Rick helps the kid to his feet and gently ruffles Morty's hair.

"It's a... a crazy chaotic place, this universe," Rick states quietly.

Morty rolls his eyes and Rick's mouth tightens.

"He's following orders, Morty." Rick explains. "Those orders had to come from somewhere. He's... he's being human."

"He's a Gromflamite!"

"Yeah and he's _being_ human!" Rick insists. "Like... like y'know when people act like such fucking sheep? H-he's not thinking for himself, Morty."

Morty looks down at the ruined soldier with haughty disgust.

"That's his problem," Morty mutters. But the cruelty that laced his tone is gone and Morty hastily looks away. "Take me home, Rick."

"Okay, Morty." Rick agrees with sad resignation. He fires the portal gun and the pair turn to leave. 

Behind him, Rick hears a quiet groan. Rick's stomach does a flip.  _That thing's still alive? Jeezus..._

"Fucking fags!" the Gromflamite calls out.

Rick and Morty both turn on the spot. Rick's robotic arm is raised in a moment and he quickly blasts the soldier to mincemeat before Morty can spring. 

"Okay," Rick breathes.  _"Now_ we can go."

 

 

 

 


	12. Child Of Innocence

_I will comfort you, take your hand and see you through_  
_I will take you through the door_

_—_ Kansas, "Child of Innocence"

 

* * *

 

 

“You always did have a thing for redheads,” Unity laughs.

Rick smirks. “Y-Y-Y’know, Une, since… since last time, I’ve discovered other tastes too,” he responds. “Stuff you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh?” Unity’s eyes light up with eager curiosity. “I can believe quite a bit.”

Rick recognizes the lilt in Unity’s voice for the challenge that it is. He bites his lip. “Alright then,” he leers, propping himself up on his forearms while Unity’s mouths curl into a dozen smirks, “get me someone—someone exactly five foot three inches tall, short wavy hair, brunet, big eyes— _Morty!_ ”

“You want me to assimilate your grandson?” Unity looks shocked.

“What? No,” Rick rolls his eyes, “Morty just entered the building,” he nods at the security tape and his lovers turn to inspect the footage of the tall strawberry blonde striding angrily into the foyer. A shorter figure in yellow trails behind her, barely visible from this angle.

Unity turns to shoot a significant look at Rick. “So he has.”

“He doesn’t need to see any of this.” Rick states. “N-not that I care but, y’know, it... it freaks those two out seeing me flirting with something that—I guess, technically— _could_ take over my mind at will even though—y’know—it clearly _won’t._ ” Rick laughs drily. Unity looks unamused. “But my stupid idiot grandkids don’t get that so we should— _uh_ —I dunno, c-clean up a bit before he gets up here.”

“You care a lot about how Morty sees you don’t you?” Unity says kindly, placing a hand on Rick’s bicep and squeezing affectionately.

“ _Psh!_ No!” Rick snaps at her, wrenching his arm out of her grasp and glaring at the auburn-haired meatsuit she’s occupying. “No offense Une but you don’t kn _OOH_ w jack sh—jack shit.”

“Oh?” Unity smiles. “Then why do you keep repeating ‘he’ instead of ‘they’? Y’know, _Summer’s_ been criticising me and what I do a lot more than Morty...”

Rick burps and quickly fans away the scent with the brim of his sumbrero. “I’m gonna—gotta take a shit.” He stumbles, tripping over his own feet, as he dashes out of the room.

 _Unity’s wrong._ Rick thinks crossly, glaring at his own reflection as he scrubs aimlessly at flushed face. _It doesn’t know what the fuck it's on about. When those dumb brats get up here they can see what me and Une are up to and they can judge away and know that I’m fine and Unity’s—_

“Grandpa Rick!” Summer shouts from the room he just left.

Morty’s shouting too.

 _Yeah, y’know what?_ Rick decides, pulling the sumbrero back on and nodding determinedly at his own face. _Let them see. Let the little weirdos judge away. I don’t fucking care!_

“I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad about the gagoo you have locked up in the garage!”

“What the hell… i-is your problem?” Rick slurs, staggering into the room. Huh. Guess he’s a little more fucked up than he realized…

“Grandpa, we need to go home. Now!” Summer insists.

God she can be so annoying sometimes.

“Fine, _geez.”_ Rick opens a portal for the two whingers. “See ya!” he says dismissively, deliberately not turning to watch them leave. Summer can go be a bossy teenage know-it-all somewhere else and Morty can…

Morty can…

“Uh, Rick?” says Morty in a voice that is way too gentle for Rick’s liking. “I think we should all go.”

“Tend your garden, kids,” Rick smirks and puts his arms around two assimilated. “I’m kinda doing a thing here.”

“Grandpa Rick, we’re not leaving without you!”

 _Seriously?_ Summer is still harping on about this? Isn’t it obvious how in control Rick is? Do they seriously, honestly still doubt him?

“Oh my god— _braaahhp_ —you guys, I get it. You’re afraid the _big bad_ hivemind is gonna steal your grandpa away—”

“—Actually, no.” Summer interrupts. “I think Unity’s great and you’re a horrible influence on _it!”_

It's like being slapped.

“What?”

Rick feels his face go pale and he glares furiously at his idiot granddaughter; but before he can mask his horror with outrage and tell Summer exactly how much of a bossy, irritating little _pain-in-the-ass_ she is, Morty steals his attention by finally speaking up.

“This isn’t healthy, Rick,” he says frankly. “Y-you know you-you’re really up to no good around here. I... at—at this place. You know?”

Morty’s stuttering even more than usual and Rick regards him with mild concern. But when their eyes finally meet, Morty gives Rick a look of undeniable—unexplainable— _pity._

Rick feels bile crawl its way up his throat. Rage blurring the edges of his vision.

It’s just the fractal dust, he tells himself. He doesn’t care what Morty thinks.

They argue. Summer looks hurt. Morty just looks tired, like he’s seen all this before and expects nothing better.

Rick’s legs feel weak. The room spins.

_(Fractal dust...)_

“Take care of yourself, Unity,” Summer states coldly as the pair of them depart through the portal.

Morty doesn’t even look back.

For the next few hours Rick drowns himself in Unity and everything she is and everything she can do. He drinks, snorts, injects, and fucks his way through the planet. A day and a half later and Rick wonders how many braincells he’s killed off. Wouldn’t it be nice if it were all of them? Then he’d be Jerry!

It feels good not to think and to just roll around, drunk on pleasure.

“Rick, is there a way for you to call Summer and Morty?” Unity asks sadly. “I feel bad that they—”

“ _Pfft_ , screw those guys! _Uugh_ , I’ll be right back.” Rick gets up to use the bathroom but not before turning back to remind Unity not to waste her brain on such mundane creatures. “They’re no different from any other aimless chumps that you occupy. They just put you at the centre of their lives because you’re powerful and then because _they_ put you there, they want you to be _less_ powerful.” He smiles knowingly at his kindred spirit. “Never gonna happen though, right?”

 

Unity’s faces are blank.

 

“Never.”

 

* * *

 

 

"Wh-what the hell happened to you back there?" Rick asks as they stride through the portal into the trashed garage.

Morty shrugs and turns away, making his way to the door.

Quick as lightning, Rick whips around to the workbench and jabs one of the buttons under the surface—the one for the blast shields ought to do the trick—and Morty jumps back in surprise as the metal shield descends over the door to the garage with a loud metallic shriek. He spins on the spot to glare defiantly at Rick.

"Where're you going psycho-boy?" Rick asks mildly, folding his arms and raising his eyebrow.

"Upstairs."

"Why?"

"Why does it matter?" Morty snaps. The kid's tense, his heckles clearly up and still in fight-mode after such a recent attack. And, fuck, he sounds like such a _brat_ right now.

"Morty..." Rick lowers his tone to something more assertive. "You just took out a government agent. Unarmed. I think w-we need to talk about that."

Morty is quiet.

"Don't you... don't you know how rare that is?" Rick begins. "Those guys are..."

"Robots?" Morty shrugs. "Bureaucrats? ' _Human?'_ " Morty air-quotes and rolls his eyes dramatically. "Either way, I know you don't respect them, Rick. So...s-so what's the—what's the problem right now?"

"No problem, just... what the hell? How'd you get so..." Rick trails off.

So quick? So ferocious? So... _Rick_ -like?

Morty shrugs.

"I don't know. I guess I play a lot of Assassin’s Creed.” (Rick gives Morty a _look._ ) “I guess I learned from watching you. W-we've been travelling together f-for a—for a—for a pretty long time. It's only natural that I'd pick up a few things. And, remember, I _did_ go to the arcade every day for a year, I got pretty good at First Person Shooters." Morty's face softens and his shoulders lower. Rick observes closely as he unclenches his fists and awkwardly rubs his doubtlessly sweaty palms on his jeans. "To... To be honest, Rick, I don't remember much of that fight." He averts his gaze and rubs his elbow nervously. "I… I don't really like dark enclosed spaces with no way out. And if I'm there for a long time I start—I dunno—freaking out? I don't like feeling—y'know—trapped?"

"Trapped..." Rick tastes the word on his lips. "Oh fuck, Morty!"

"Huh?"

"A Ball-Fondlers double feature? Gawd, how did I fucking miss it? I-i-it was totally a fucking set-up, Morty!"

"Yeah, Rick. I... I thought that was obvious."

"Yeah, but they could have trapped us in any dimension. Anywhere.” Rick suddenly lunges forward to grip Morty’s shoulders. “They could have grabbed us here if they wanted. But they specifically lured us away to _that_ one. Why...?" He gives the kid a firm shake.

"Uh..."

Rick pulls away from Morty and whips out various screens and monitors that he knows Morty doesn't understand. He pulls up a small satellite dish and its corresponding remote before plugging in one of his more rarely-used homemade machines into his desktop. The machine is covered in a thin layer of dust.

Rick didn’t think he’d ever have to use it again.

"Morty, go upstairs and check on your— wait, they were going out today weren't they? Morty, call your Mom."

"Kay, Rick. But won't Summer be more likely to—"

"Your _Mom,_ Morty! Your _Mom!_  Just trust me on this one."

Morty does so.

Rick starts furiously typing, flicking switches, and pushing buttons. He brings up the task menu and searches through the various programs. _Fuck!_ he thinks desperately. _Please let me be wrong. Please,_ God, _let me be wrong. If I'm right about this then we're completely..._

"No answer, Rick. Mom's not picking up."

"SHIT!"

"Sh-she could be busy, Rick? Maybe the spa she and Summer went to doesn't allow phones."

"They're not at a _spa_ , Morty!" Rick barks as he furiously jiggles the satellite dish. "Okay, now call your Dad. I'll call Summer."

No matter how much Rick begs The Almighty, neither Summer nor Jerry answer their phones.

_No... no please let me be wrong about this._

The machine Rick plugged into the desktop computer makes an obnoxious pinging sound and Rick yanks out the data sheet that’s currently spilling from the machine’s slotted mouth. Drinking in the data, Rick freezes.

"No... oh fuck _no._ "

Of course he is right.

He's always fucking right.

"DAMMIT!" Rick slams a fist on the surface of the workbench before turning to Morty. "They found us, Morty."

"The Intergalactic Government?"

"Beh- _eeehhrrp_ —bingo!" Rick burps. "Right then..." he presses the button for the blast shields and points to the door. "Morty, go pack a bag. We're leaving."

"Leaving?"

"We gotta hop dimensions, Morty. This dimension's fucked. The government kidnapped your family, Morty! And since they have them and not me; y-your parents and sister are gonna be interrogated, killed, raped—hopefully in that order—in an attempt to find me." Rick rolls his eyes and turns back to the screen. "So we gotta get out of here before they come knocking on the door. This is the first place they're gonna look for us, Morty. We gotta get moving Morty."

The yellow shadow in the corner of Rick's vision doesn't move.

 

"What are you doing, Morty?! There's no time! Move! Now!"

 

 

"No."

 

 

* * *

 

_“Because in a strange way you’re better at what I do without even trying.”_

 

She’s right. Rick knows it.

How many times has Morty gone along with his plans barely knowing the whole story? How many times has he nearly gotten the boy killed? Or worse?

Rick hates Jerry for being a predator. But don’t daughters marry their fathers? He lured Morty in by being smarter than anyone else Morty could possibly meet, and the  _idiot_ trusted him because, being uniquely stupid, he always had to trust the smartest person in the room.

It's obvious now. Rick’s obsessed with the kid for the same reason he’s infuriated by him: he’s Rick’s opposite. Where he sees numbers and efficiency and an unforgiving expanse where nothing matters and no one is special, Morty approaches life like its a Beatles song.

If Rick continues to drag Morty around like this, what will become of him? Will Morty lose that innocence? That wonder? Will Morty become something like him?

Has it already happened?

 

_“You can’t change.”_

That’s what she’d said to him.

 

Rick’s eyes slowly close as the light bulb hums into life.

 

* * *

 

Rick feels the colour drain from his face as he turns to look at Morty.

The kid has risen to his full height, which isn't particularly intimidating and he’s looking up at Rick with cold yet clumsy defiance. His mouth is a thin line, his shoulders squared, and his fists clenched.

“Morty!” Rick says exasperatedly. This is _not_ the time for stubbornness.

“You heard me, Rick. I said _no!_ ” Morty insists. “You can run if you want. But they’re my family. I—I’m not abandoning them, Rick.”

"Wh-wh-what is this?" Rick groans. "Some hero complex?” Rick laughs without a shred of humour. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."

Morty's expression is dark and resolved and Rick has to admit he has never seen his grandson look like that. Defiant, petulant, and annoying as hell but he’s never seen him look at him with such ferocity before. Such resolve.

 

The boy isn’t going to budge.

 

"Morty..." he warns.

"You wanna jump ship, go ahead, Rick. I can handle it."

 

Those four words again.

They never fail to make Rick want to slap him.

Morty drenched in his own blood with his insides on the outside? _I can handle it._ Morty beaten into a bloody pulp and on the verge of unconsciousness? _I can handle it._ Morty acknowledging Rick leaving? _I can handle it if you go._

"But I'm gonna go after the bastards that did this.” Morty continues. “I'm gonna find them and...a-and I'm going to save my parents and sister.”

“With what?” Rick laughs.

Morty looks around at the trashed garage. “You...you can’t take all of this stuff. I know how most of it works. And your ship can’t fit through the portal so I’ll be fine.”

Rick can’t take it anymore. Before his mind can properly catch up with his actions he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the laser pistol, aiming it straight at his grandson.

Morty’s eyes widen.

Rick’s lip curls.

It’s not fair that Morty’s eyes are so big and that his frame is still so small. It’s not fair how he’s making Rick’s heart ache by looking up at him with confusion and surprise and just a trace of betrayal. Rick grits his teeth, willing his hand not to shake as he keeps the gun pointed at Morty’s face.

_This is it._

With his other hand, he fires his portal gun at the nearby wall.

“Get in the portal, Morty.”

The kid has a choice. Come with him or be killed. If the Federation find him, they’ll do worse. Shooting him here is a fucking _mercy._

_(Yeah tell yourself that.)_

The silence is long and pregnant with anger and fear. It stretches thin and long and Rick is suddenly too-aware of the insipid natural light in the room, the birds chirping mindlessly outside, the way the late-winter cicadas are cautiously buzzing in the unseasonably warm weather. He swallows thickly, closes his eyes, and when he opens them finds his vision blurred with pain as his broken hand is grasped. Small relentless fingertips dig painfully into his gunshot wound.

Rick cries out as the gun is wrestled from him and then pointed at him. Morty’s fear-wide eyes sharpening in determined resolve.

 

 

“No, Rick.”

 

Rick glares at Morty with disgust as he clutches his ruined and bloody hand.

"God _dammit_ , Morty! Y-you still don't get it, do you?” Rick snarls. “You have _infinite_ families, Morty. Literally over 99-billion families to choose from. An infinite cosmos of possible households where you can eat pancakes for breakfast and whine about your problems and get caught masturbating. Going after these guys is just... just..."

"That's right, Rick." Morty says icily. "I'm leaving the 99-billion in order to go after the one. And I don't care what that makes me."

Rick and Morty both stare at each other. The gun doesn't lower. Morty's face doesn't change.

“If the Federation find you, Morty—”

“They won’t find me, Rick,” says Morty quietly. “A-And if they do, well… I… I took one out unarmed today remember?”

Rick’s eyes narrow. “You got lucky.”

“I might get lucky again.”

“They don’t—” Rick closes his eyes in exasperation. How can he put it in a way Morty will both understand _and_ believe? Beth looks at the kid like he’s a burden and Jerry looks at him like he’s a prize to be won. He’s not even a _person_ to those creeps. “You know they don’t—”

“Whatever you’re going to tell me, Rick.” Morty says quietly. “I don’t care. I’ve made up my mind, Rick. I’m not leaving my parents or my sister with those things. I’m saving them, with you or without you.”

"You know," Rick says coolly. The plasma cannon in his robot arm warming up with the words. "I could kill you for this."

" _You know_ ," Morty replies. "I don't like myself enough to care."

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take.

Aside from the vicious hangover that is beating his brain around inside his skull, Rick feels numb. The world around him has sucked out his energy.

He leaves the garage in search of the coffee machine and something dripping with grease.

“Hi Rick.”

_Fuck! Morty?_

Why isn’t the little brat at school?

“Hey.” Rick replies flatly.

“You… You missed out on pancakes this morning,” Morty tells him. Something about the kid’s voice makes Rick feel uneasy and he finds himself unable to look Morty in the eye. It is as though if he dares, Morty will see the brokenness and somehow, instinctively, _know…_

“Th-th-this morning?” Rick says vaguely, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Wh-what time is it?”

“Three o’clock,” Morty replies. “Um… on Saturday. Y-you’ve been asleep in the garage for two days, Rick.”

“Oh.”

Morty doesn’t say anything. Rick can see him sway and sneaks a look at him.

Morty looks tired. The dark circles beneath his eyes are swollen and puffy. He’s too thin, and his skin doesn’t look good either. He looks ill.

Jeez… is this what Rick does to people?

But he’s also… Rick almost can’t bear to admit it… cute. He’s wearing a slightly out-of-character grey hoodie which is a little to big for him and the look of exhausted selfless concern on his face makes Rick want to wrap the boy in his arms and…

“Hey, Morty?” Rick grunts.

“Yeah, Rick?”

“W-wanna see a movie tonight?” he asks casually. “If—I dunno—if you’re not doing anything else?”

“Yeah, sure Rick,” Morty smiles. “Wh-whatever you want, man. Whatever you need.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

"Put the gun down."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because," Rick groans, rubbing his unibrow with an open palm. "I'm fucking... I'm fucking caving, okay?" Rick pulls out the portal gun. "They trapped us in another dimension, that means the one thing I was w-worried about has finally happened. Ugh! Those _cunts!_ They...they were gonna figure it out sooner or later but I had hoped you'd be a bit older before they did."

"Th-th-they've figured out interdimensional travel?" Morty asks fearfully, finally lowering the gun.

"Heh. Don't—don't give them so much credit, Morty. They're walking through a sea of fascist government regulations, they-ey're not gonna figure that— _errrhhp_ —that out for at least another four generations..." Rick rolls his eyes and pulls the satellite towards him, repositioning it very carefully. "No, they've discovered interdimensional _communication_. It's not as dangerous to us but it's... it's definitely pretty fucking annoying."

"Is that how—?"

"It's how they trapped us in that cinema, y-yeah, Morty." Rick sighs. "All the Intergalactic Governments are now _..._ _working together_." Rick sighs with disgust. "So...we're gonna have to do a lot of running, a lot of fighting, and a _lot_ of careful thinking. This could kill us both, Morty, you...y-you understand?"

 

Morty nods.

"Still up for it?"

"With or without you, Rick." Morty replies seriously.

Rick nods and turns back to the screen, trying to find the best place to begin their search.

"But."

Rick pauses. He turns nervously to look at his grandson. _What the fuck does the kid want this time?_

"I'd rather it was _with you,_ Rick," Morty bites his lip shyly.

Rick pauses, his fingertips hovering over the keys as he drinks in the sight of Morty’s shy smile and that little nervous tick that drives him wild. Then Morty’s gaze raises from the floor to Rick’s face and Rick feels all the air whoosh out of him with the sight of those large chocolate brown eyes that stare naively into his soul with all the trust Rick could never deserve.

“Our best bet is to head to the Andromeda system first,” Rick says flatly, turning his body to give Morty his full attention. “A-and then… um...”

Morty steps forward, his smile warmer than sunlight.

“Yes?”

Rick steps toward Morty and rests his hands on Morty’s shoulders, preventing the kid from getting any closer. He can’t trust himself around Morty anymore and if the boy gets too far into Rick’s personal space, he fears he’ll leave any rationality behind. 

He’s drifted the cosmos for years not caring about anything. Family, tradition, humanity, and _Earth_ were just teeny specks in the great expanse of the universe. He turned black holes into suns, witnessed events so tiny and so insignificant they may as well not have happened at all, sold the weapons to the winners and then watched as cities burned; armies learned to run from him without him having to utter a single word. Rick created matter, dark matter, antimatter, and in the end it _didn’t_ matter.

Why did cities, lives, or _families_ matter at all when a tiny planet took another trip around its sun regardless of whether anyone lived or died? Rick could turn love on for an evening of passion and then turn it off again when the sun rose. He was always in control. Always.

Then Morty was born and Rick was doomed.

“Rick?”

The kid is a walking disease.

“I can’t cure it,” Rick mumbles, barely speaking. “I never found a way to quit you.”

“Huh?”

“I...”

“Rick...” Morty murmurs kindly, placing a hand on Rick’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “I..." But then Morty’s gaze lands on Rick’s bloodied hand and his face contorts into a wince. “I’m so sorry. Your hand… w-we should get something to take care of that.”

“Morty...” Rick’s focus swims as tingles travel up his neck and into his head, leaving him feeling loved and cared-for and weaker than ever. He hastily blinks away the confusion and, locking his gaze on Morty, decides on one last-ditch attempt: “They not your real family, Morty.”

Morty’s face is expressionless.

“Th-they don’t deserve you.”

“I know.”

 

 

 

“I’m going after them anyway.”

 

 

 

They both stare at one another for a moment. Rick winces in pain as he feels a part of him dying. He’s desperate for the boy who isn’t quite a lover but whom he can never see as his grandchild. The selfless, stupid, rage-inducing little boy who can’t take no for an answer and, until now, couldn’t seem to say no to Rick.

What even _is_ Morty Smith? What kind of mundane kid could possibly have this effect on him? Even his own _daughter_ didn’t inspire him to such rash self-destruction.

 

If Rick Sanchez is a god, did that make Morty a godkiller?

 

Rick swallows.

 

_("You can't change.")_

 

_What have you done to me, Morty?_

 

“Alright, Morty!” Rick suddenly declares with enthusiasm, seizing Morty’s shoulders and grinning broadly. “Pack a bag and bury your life behind you ‘cause we’ve got an adventure to go on, Morty. And we’re gonna save your sister and we’re gonna save your parents from a tyrannical government that doesn’t know when to quit. And we’re gonna do a lot of running and a lot of fighting and a lot of blowing things up. The Federation’s gonna fall _for good_ this time. D’you know why, Morty? Because they came into _my_ house, took _my_ daughter and granddaughter and I don’t like people taking what’s _mine!”_

“Oh jeez. That’s some pretty dark shit, Rick.”

“Oh-ho, and it’s gonna get _darker,_ Morty!” Rick bursts out excitedly and steps into Morty’s space. Morty stumbles backwards and Rick crowds in on him while Morty lies prone on the hard concrete floor. Rick can feel his vision becoming unfocused but he doesn’t care.

“W-We’re gonna be fighting toe-to-toe with friend and foe alike, Morty, and we’re not gonna win every battle. In fact, we’re gonna lose. A lot. But even if we lose, we won’t make it easy for them. No one’s gonna say it was easy to take down Rick and Morty! Welcome… welcome to the darkest installment yet, Morty. First thing that’s gonna change? No more home, Morty. And no more school. We’re never coming back here.”

“Ohhh fuck….”

“Second thing? More lasers! Less fluff, and a fucktonne of angst, Morty!”

“Oh man.”

“And there’s gonna be _smut_ , Morty. Smut and non-con. You know that? You know what that means, Morty? It means you’re gonna do whatever I say, Morty—”

As Morty begins a mad scramble away from Rick, Rick grabs his ankle and drags him back into his rightful place.

“—And if your Mom ever questions me about it, I’ll _deny_ it and she’ll believe me because I’ll be a hero, Morty. I’ll be a hero for rescuing her and your sister, Morty.”

“B-but what about my—”

“So now you’re gonna let me do anything I want and I— I’m gonna get to finally see that Ball-Fondlers double-feature, Morty! I’m gonna see the Ball-Fondlers movie! And we’ll have… we’ll have caramel Maltesers, Morty! Even if takes… _two more parts._ _Two more parts,_ Morty! At least 24 more chapters! That’s what’s gonna carry us to the end, Morty!”

“Huh? What are you talking about? I need to pack—”

“I want those caramel Maltesers, Morty!”

“Oh jeez.”

“ _Two more parts!”_ Rick cries out, his eyes blazing. “Two more parts until I finally get what I want!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You heard the man!
> 
> See you all in... I dunno... September, maybe? Part 3 is already well underway.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment or leave kudos if you're enjoying the story so far! I really appreciate everybody's feedback.


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